


eternity is a long, long time (i wouldn’t mind spending it by your side)

by Setkia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining Does NOT Prepare You For Relationships, A/C Can Be Asexual But I Wanted To Write Awkward Endearing Smut So They’re Not In This Fic, Also My War on Language is Embodied in Crowley's Hatred of English, Awkward Romance, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Don't Be Scared By the Rating, Enthusiastic consent is my kink, Expect Everything to be Fluffy Without Conflict and Just About Awkwardly Figuring Out a Relationship, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Has Plenty of Non-Sexual Delights to Offer, Healthy Sexual Relationships Fuck Yeah, I Make the Same Apple Joke Like 1000 Times, I Stress The Importance Of Healthy Asexual Relationships A Lot In Here, Immortals Figuring Out How to Bone, M/M, Sex Talks Are Awkward But Necessary, Sexual Relationship Negotiation Starts Chapter 45, Slice of Life, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), They're Totally Married But Overthink Everything, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, kink shame me I dare you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 79
Words: 52,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22117198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Setkia/pseuds/Setkia
Summary: "I like you.”The angel blinks.“Like … romantically?”“Kinda.” Crowley won’t meet his eyes.“Oh.”They stand in silence as Crowley fiddles with the record cover. Freddie Mercury sings about his best friend. “Is that okay?”“Yeah.”Being in a relationship is complicated. They have an eternity to figure it out.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1030
Kudos: 706





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is literally just fluff. This is mean trying to help my depression by using my favourite ship. The chapters lengths will vary, but it's just cuteness.  
> Title from "I Wouldn't Mind", by He is We, which is just, perfect for these two. I hope you'll forgive me for it not being Queen.

The moment Crowley sees the cottage, he knows it’s perfect.

He can picture it clearly: a hot day spent in the sun, planting new orchids, while glaring at the weeds with enough venom to render any pesticides redundant. Aziraphale opening the window to tell him the tea is ready. Sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, recounting their day. Going to sleep in a large bed, while Aziraphale sits next to him under the covers, reading Wilde for the thousandth time by the bedside lamp until he gives in and cuddles Crowley to sleep.

It doesn’t matter that they’re not like that. It doesn’t matter that Crowley can’t fathom these thoughts being anything more than sickeningly sweet fantasies to torture his demonic soul. It doesn’t even matter that Aziraphale has never even seen the place.

Crowley buys it.

About six months after the Apocawasn’t, Aziraphale suggests they get out of London.

“Perhaps your wanderlust has rubbed off on me, dear boy. Do you have a place in mind we may go?”

Immediately he thinks of the South Downs. It’s no Alpha Centauri, but hardly anything is. It’s in keeping with the angel’s cozy, rustic aesthetic that through osmosis and years of shared company has rubbed off in part on Crowley.

He suggests it off-handedly, and tries not to be brace himself for Aziraphale’s rejection.

To his surprise, the angel is _delighted_ by the idea.

It finds them packing the Bentley with as many books as the thing can carry, and some it can’t (a little demonic miracle. It’s not a _nice_ thing to do, he’s allowing the angel to indulge in hedonism, it’s totally helping to taint his angelic soul— he’s not fooling anyone, is he?)

Leaning on the hood of the Bentley, Crowley watches as Aziraphale gushes about the greenery, and how there appears to be a perfect room for him to read in the sunlight.

If this is how he spends the rest of eternity, Crowley has no complaints.


	2. Chapter 2

Living with Crowley is … _odd_. Or rather, it’s odd at how not-odd it is.

The angel and demon have been by each other’s side in the figurative sense for the last six thousand years, but they’ve only been close to each other the last eleven or so. Crowley has always enjoyed his privacy, as the light haired man is more than aware of, but he doesn’t seem to have any complaints about their shared living space.

Crowley gives him the room closest to the kitchen, knowing he has cravings at night and since the demon is the one who sleeps, it just makes more sense.

They both share the room with the large window. Crowley uses it to sunbathe in snake form, and Aziraphale uses it to read. Crowley puts on a vinyl record, and then slithers into Aziraphale’s lap. They sit in silence as Freddie Mercury sings, and the angel occasionally pets the original tempter as he reads Milton’s interpretation of Lucifer.

He misses his bookshop something dreadful, but he knows it’s still there, and there’s something lovely about listening to Crowley’s tired, barely awake voice in the morning as he stumbles into the kitchen and tackles pancakes for the thousandth time.

(“I _could_ just miracle them up, but remember, I’ve got _demon_ magic, there’s no excuse for fluffy breakfast foods that could possibly make them come out right. Some things you just have to do the traditional way.”)

Spending an eternity retired used to seem like a nightmare. Now it doesn’t seem like long enough.


	3. Chapter 3

There’s a knock on the door. Aziraphale is too engrossed in his book to hear the human outside their home.

(it’s really funny to have a _home_. Heaven never was right, and Hell was a complete disaster and though the bookshop was perfect in all dimensions, it wasn’t _his_ , not like this cottage is, which also, now that he thinks about, isn’t _his_ , it’s _theirs_ , and that makes it a home more than anything else)

Crowley opens the door and glares at the person standing before him.

“Hullo!”

It’s a woman with slightly greying hair. Crowley’s eyes dart down to something the female is holding in her hands. “What is that?”

“This? A pie. I’m Kathy, I live just down the road. I meant to give this to you sooner, but Charlotte is the one who’s good in the kitchen, and quite frankly, if I had tried it before she got home, there wouldn’t have been a home to come back to.”

This woman talks a lot. Crowley isn’t a huge fan.

“Why’d you bring a pie?”

“To welcome you to the neighbourhood.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, well, we have weekly get togethers outside and we noticed you and your partner haven’t attended any of them. We thought it’s because you’re shy. We don’t bite!” she assures.

 _I do_ , Crowley thinks, when his mind latches onto the other thing she said.

“Partner?”

The woman blushes. “I’m sorry, do you not use that term? Not everyone does. Are you his husband?”

Crowley wants to say he’s not Aziraphale’s anything. Not really. He’s not any of these male-centric titles, given that he doesn’t have much of a gender, and some days he wears lipstick and responds better to the societal expectations of feminine, but he doubts she wants a rant about the schematics of gender politics.

“No, I’m his …”

_Hereditary enemy? Friend? One whom he fraternizes with?_

Crowley’s brow furrows.

“You’re his …?” the woman presses.

“That’s the end of the sentence,” Crowley says. “I’m just … his.” It seems more fitting than any other term the woman seems insistent on projecting onto him.

“Oh!”

He does not like how high pitched that sound is.

“That’s so _romantic_!”

Crowley’s nose crinkles. It’s not romantic, it just _is_. It’s how they are. Crowley is Aziraphale’s, and Aziraphale is … Aziraphale. Ignoring how much Crowley chases after him throughout history and stares a little too much when the angel eats in front of him.

“Did you … come here for anything else?”

“Oh, no. Other than to invite you to the weekly BBQ.”

Crowley nods tersely. “We’ll think about it. Thanks.”

He takes the pie and closes the door in her face.

“Angel! I got some food for you!”

  
It’s apple pie.

(Crowley laughs himself crazy until everything sounds like a hiss. Aziraphale tries — and fails— to contain his smile.)


	4. Chapter 4

“But I don’t _want_ to give her the wine.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “She made us a lovely apple pie, we _have_ to give her _something_.”

“Says who?”

“It’s the _nice_ thing to do. And before you say anything, I know you’re not nice, but _I_ am.”

The angel knocks on the door of their neighbours. (It took _ages_ to figure out where Kathy and Charlotte lived.

_“How am I supposed to know where she lives?”_

_“You saw her in the first place! What’d she look like?”_

_“Fleshy. Human-y. They all look the same to me!”_

_“You didn’t even watch in what direction she went, after she left?”_

_“You said staring was rude! I was trying not to be rude! Thought you’d be proud of me for it.”_

_“You’re a_ ** _demon_** _, you’re_ ** _supposed to be rude_** _!”_ )

The door opens.

A woman stands before them, an apron wrapped around her waist. She’s got flour in her hair, which is done up in a bun. “Oh! What a delightful surprise! Give me just a moment, I’ll get Kathy!”

Crowley leans closer to the angel. “That’s not the one I saw. Who is that?”

“I’m assuming that was Charlotte,” Aziraphale whispers. “Thought you said they all looked the same. How do you know that’s not the one who gave you the pie?”

“Was a figure of speech. One of _my_ inventions, by the way. Always did love fucking up communication lines.”

There are two humans standing before them now.

Aziraphale puts on his brightest smile. “Hello! I’m Aziraphale! This is Crowley—”

“Anthony J Crowley, pleasure to meet you,” the demon cuts him off, holding out his hand for the human to take.

“I’m Charlotte Forester, no middle name, I’m afraid,” says the woman in the apron. “Did you enjoy the pie? I would’ve gone with Kath myself to give it to you, but I had an errand to do.”

“It was lovely,” Aziraphale assures her. “We actually brought you some wine, in thanks for it.”

“Oh!” says Kathy. “There’s no need for that!”

“There’s not?” Crowley asks, reaching for the wine. Aziraphale holds it out of his reach. “They just said it wasn’t necessary. We can keep it.”

“No, I insist.”

The women giggle. “Ah, how long have you two been together?”

“Oh, we’re not—”

“Since the Beginning,” Crowley cuts in. He’s smiling, one of those wicked I-know-something-you-do-not smiles. He slings an arm around the angel’s shoulder and pulls him closer just the slightest bit. “Basically forever.”

“That’s so sweet,” Kathy says. “I can tell you two are very comfortable with each other. Would you like to come in, drink this with us?”

“No.”

“Of course!”

Crowley and Aziraphale look at each other.

The two women laugh together, their eyes crinkling in the corners. Aziraphale can tell they’ve lived very happy lives.

“Don’t be rude, my boy. We don’t want to impose.”

“It’s not an imposition, not at all!” says Charlotte. “If you’d just let me get fixed up, —”

“There’s no need! Really!” Aziraphale insists. “How about we take a raincheck? We’re still getting settled in. Anthony mentioned a weekly BBQ. How abut we meet up then?” In 1941, Aziraphale said he’d get used to “Anthony”. He still hasn’t. Or perhaps he just prefers Crowley. The name feels wrong coming off his tongue.

“Oh! That’d be delightful! It’s on Wednesday nights, so I suppose we’ll see you soon then!” She reaches out to take the wine, but Crowley holds it fast.

“Dear, give her the wine.”

The demon lets go.

“Thank you again for the wine!”

The door closes.

“Honestly, dear, it’s just a bottle of wine.”

“It’s a bottle of wine that’s roped us into going to a BBQ,” the redhead growls. “How long do you think we have to stay before we can leave and never be bothered again?”

Aziraphale frowns. “I think they’re delightful.”

“They think we’re _married_ ,” Crowley bites out.

“Well, that’s no thanks to you. Was it worth going along with it, just to make a joke they didn’t understand?”

“What if I come down with the bubonic plague? Then you can go to the BBQ for a few minutes before your concern for me wins out and then they’ll never invite us to participate in any neighbourly activities again.”

“The bubonic plague died out a few centuries ago, dear.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t bring it back.”

Aziraphale leads the demon back to their cottage. “It won’t be that bad. You’ve survived Armageddon. A few hours mingling with humans will not kill you.”


	5. Chapter 5

  
The BBQ may kill Crowley.

There’s so many _humans_ , and they all want to _talk to him_. He feels like he’s drowning with Aziraphale by his side, who is busy speaking to the resident librarian. He wants to pull him away, demand he help him escape this terrible party, but he can hear they’re discussing Hamlet, and it’s not as though he can talk to Crowley about that dreary play. He’ll give him five more minutes.

“Why are you wearing sunglasses?”

Crowley turns to the umpteenth person to ask him the question in the last half hour. It’s a small child, a little girl with pigtails that stick out from either side of her head. He leans down to her eye level. “Why do you want to know?”

“Curious,” she says.

“I have light sensitivity,” Crowley lies.

“But the sun’s not out anymore.”

Crowley hisses ever so slightly. He’s starting to lose his balance, crouching like this. “What’s your name, little girl?”

“Lyla.”

“How old are you Lyla?”

“I’m five,” she says, holding out a hand to show him. As if he doesn’t know how much the number five is. She’s swaying slightly as she says it, her purple sundress swishing ever so slightly. “Why are you wearing sunglasses?”

Crowley looks both ways. “Promise you won’t tell?”

Lyla’s face grows very serious for a five year old. Or, as serious as a five year old’s face can get. “I promise on my pinky!”

“On your pinky?” Crowley repeats. “Well, that’s not very reassuring.”

“I need all my other fingers though!”

“That is true. Okay, I guess I’ll tell you.” Crowley gives up on crouching and lets himself get on his knees. “You seem trust worthy enough. Lean in really close. You never know who is listening.”

The girl does as he says. Children trust far too much. It’s kind of adorable.

“I’m a secret agent.”

Lyla lets out a gasp. “Really?”

“Uh huh.”

She salutes him.

Maybe the BBQ isn’t that bad after all.


	6. Chapter 6

  
Aziraphale quickly learns throughout the BBQ that everyone in the South Downs seems to think he and Crowley are married.

He doesn’t correct them.

He is not nearly as averse to interacting with God’s creations as Crowley is, but even he gets tired, so he leans on a tree a bit off from the rest of the party.

Someone taps him on the shoulder.

Aziraphale turns. The man standing before him is Tom? Or … Sam? Or Bob? He lives two houses over, and he’s got a pet cat. “Hullo!”

“Taking a break from the party?”

“Little bit.”

“Your man’s very good with children,” says the man. He points to where Crowley is. It’s hard to miss him, what with his red hair and his dark outfit. He’s speaking to a little girl in a purple dress, and she’s laughing with him. It appears the demon is enjoying himself, for all his protests.

“He really is.”

“Do you have any children?”

“Oh, no.” Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, no, no. We uh, we’re not sure how we’d even deal with them.” He said _we_. He’s just lumped Crowley’s life and his together with a single word. There’s something terrifying about that, but also very natural.

“Well, they seem fond of him.”

The little girl has been joined by two other children, who Crowley is now also talking to. The group of them are laughing and talking. He’s reminded of the Ark. Crowley has always had a soft spot for children.

Perhaps he may drag the demon out to these weekly BBQs more often.


	7. Chapter 7

Crowley may have made friends with the children of the South Downs. He may enjoy their company more than that of the adults. It’s not his fault children are superior. They become rotten and tainted the older they get, and that’s not because of demonic interference (at least, not by much).

It reminds him of those years with Warlock. But better. Warlock was a job. He grew rather fond of the tyke, but all the same.

It becomes a routine.

On Wednesdays, Crowley and Aziraphale get dressed up (Crowley in black pants and a red shirt— Aziraphale is insistent he can’t just wear black _all the time_ — and Aziraphale in a tan suit with a tartan bowtie) and go to whoever’s home is hosting the BBQ.

Eventually the rotation ends up being at their cottage.

There is a problem.

Crowley does not know how to cook. And neither does Aziraphale.

They can’t very well _not_ serve the humans. Food isn’t necessary for Crowley, it’s not even a thing he can _eat_ , damn God and Her second punishment (as if turning his wings black wasn’t bad enough, all food turns to ash in his mouth). Aziraphale eats as an indulgence, and magicked food is not quite the same as normal food. Crowley can’t taste the difference, but that’s mostly because he can’t taste at all.

He wakes up on the Wednesday they have to host the BBQ to Aziraphale making a giant mess in the kitchen.

“Angel, you’re going to set the drapes on fire.”

Aziraphale turns, looking frantic and lost. Crowley’s stomach curls. He wants to reach out, to do _something_ , but he’s not sure what. The domesticity of living with the angel is doing things to his brain. Making his impulses ever so slightly harder to control.

Crowley waves his hand and the fire goes out.

“It’s not even midday—”

“It’s three in the afternoon, Crowley.”

“Is it?”

Aziraphale nods.

“Oh.” He tilts his head. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Figured I’d let you sleep.”

“You know I don’t _need_ to sleep. You wouldn’t be interrupting me or anything”

“But you enjoying sleeping. I don’t _need_ to eat, but it’s not like you stop me when I’m in the middle of a meal.”

Well yes, but that’s also because it’s a guilty pleasure of Crowley’s to watch Aziraphale eat.

“Let me get the gas out. It’s safer for me to burn the little pieces of meat.”

“But—”

“No buts, angel.”

Crowley hums _Bicycle_ under his breath as he ties an apron around his waist and rolls up his sleeves. He’s got no fucking idea if BBQ is any different from normal cooking, but since it involves flames, he’s pretty sure he’s got it handled.


	8. Chapter 8

Crowley burns himself on the BBQ, because of course he does.

Aziraphale wonders what the other demons would say if they could see him now. The Original Tempter, singing David Bowie and awkwardly shuffling his legs in an approximation of a dance while wearing a Kiss the Chef apron and _socializing_ with humans.

And then he suddenly burns himself and drops the tongs, letting out a shriek.

Aziraphale rushes to his side in an instant, but it appears the little girl Crowley met at the first BBQ got there first. Her name is Lyla, as Crowley has told him.

“Are you okay, Agent Crowley?”

_Agent Crowley?_

“I’m fine,” says the redhead. He’s a liar.

Aziraphale takes his hand in his. The skin is red, and may scar if he doesn’t do something. “Alright, just give me a moment—”

“Oi,” Crowley cuts in, his voice dropping. “No frivolous miracles.”

“It’s not frivolous, I’m helping a friend,” Aziraphale whispers back.

“There’s humans _everywhere_ ,” the demon hisses.

“Are you going to kiss it better?”

The two beings turn to the little girl.

“Excuse me?”

“Mommy always kisses my booboos better,” says Lyla. “Are you going to kiss it better?”

Aziraphale glances around him. There _are_ an awful lot of humans around them, and even if it _wasn’t_ a frivolous miracle, there’s little he can do to talk his way out of healing Crowley and explaining it to the others.

“Sorry about this,” he says, and makes sure he’s covering Crowley’s burn as best as he can before he leans forward and heals him. The view is obstructed enough that when he focuses all his healing powers into his mouth, the light touch of his lips to the demon’s skin not only heals him, but also blocks the injury enough that it seems normal.

“Thanks,” Crowley says. His voice sounds weird.

“All better, Agent Crowley?”

The demon coughs into his hand. “Right. Yes, I’m all better, Lyla.”

“Good.”

 _Yes, very good indeed,_ Aziraphale thinks, watching the way Crowley smiles at the little girl.


	9. Chapter 9

“Why don’t you ever eat?”

Crowley freezes mid-sip. He glances over his red cup at Kathy. In the past few months since moving to South Downs, he’s learnt quite a bit about the humans of the village. He likes them more than he did at the beginning, but he still prefers the children. Kathy likes gardening though, so she’s tolerable.

“I eat,” he says.

“I know it’s a little thing, but BBQ nights I feel your plate is always empty. Do you have allergies? Charlotte wouldn’t mind making you something from a different menu.”

“No, I just … I’m a picky eater,” Crowley says. “There’s no need to go out of your way for me. Really. It’s all good.”

“If you’re certain.”

“I am. Certain, that is.”

Kathy doesn’t seem to believe him.

Crowley decides then to do something stupid.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale turns from where he is, speaking to Harold, who lives across the street. “Mind giving me a piece from your plate?”

The angel comes over, and raises an eyebrow. He knows Crowley can’t eat. The demon can’t very well put food on his plate, and then try to explain the ash that appears, or why it’s barely touched, but to have a “bite” from Aziraphale’s plate, that might be manageable.

The angel takes a tomato from his salad, and stabs it on a fork. Crowley’s about to take it but instead, Aziraphale offers it out to him.

Crowley’s grateful for his glasses because anyone else would see how wide his eyes have just gotten.

He makes sure his mouth closes all the way around the small tomato. The moment it touches his tongue, it turns to ash. He takes a swig from a passerby’s coke to rinse out the sawdust-like feeling. “Sorry about that. Didn’t like the dressing.”


	10. Chapter 10

Aziraphale has never thought very much about his relationship with Crowley. It’s always just … _been_. As ineffable as the Great Plan, not much thought has been dedicated to it, but these months in South Downs has made him feel the urge to examine it.

“Do you ever wonder where they get the idea? The neighbours, I mean.”

“What idea?”

“That we’re …” Aziraphale shrugs. “Together.”

“Together,” Crowley deadpans.

“You know, _together_.”

“We _are_ together.” The demon gestures to the small space between he and the angel. Crowley is sitting on the windowsill of the room Aziraphale has come to think of as his reading room, while Aziraphale sits on the oriental rug with _Lord of the Flies_ in his hands, leaning against the wall below the window.

“You’re purposefully being obtuse.”

“I wouldn’t be a demon if I didn’t.”

“You know what I mean.”

There’s silence.

“I do.”

Aziraphale twists in his position, places his arms on the windowsill where Crowley’s feet are. “So? Why do you think they seem to think we’re … involved?”

Crowley shrugs. “They’re humans. Why do they do anything?”

“But do we like … I dunno, give off a feeling?”

“I mean, you’re the one who can feel the virtues. Do we _feel_ all lovey-dovey?”

“I can’t sense virtues if they’re coming from immortals. It’s different for people— _beings_ like us. We don’t _feel_ like anything. We’re just … us.” Aziraphale puts his book aside. “Apparently, from a human perspective, us seems to be awfully in love.”

Crowley stretches his legs out from their bunched up position. Aziraphale moves his arms as is required. “Hmm. It’s a good thing we’re retired. She’d probably make you Fall for that. Being perceived to be in a relationship with a demon.”

“Not if I was actually in love. Love is hardly a sin.”

“Thought you’re supposed to love all things equally, and all that shit.” Crowley turns onto his stomach and rests his head in his hands. “Wouldn’t having a favourite defeat the whole purpose? Especially an _occult_ favourite?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Interesting.”

They fall into a silence, just watching each other.

Queen plays softly in the background.

“I don’t think of you as occult, you know.”

“You don’t?”

“No. You’re just … Crowley.”

“Hm. Same here, angel. You’re just … Aziraphale.”

“That’s nice. I like just being me. Without the expectations.” Crowley makes a sound of agreement. “It doesn’t bother you, though? That they think we know each other, in a Biblical sense?”

“Humans’ll think whatever they want to think. We know the truth, that’s all that matters.”

“That simple?”

“Yup.”

A part of Aziraphale wants to protest that it can’t possibly be that uncomplicated. Nothing is ever uncomplicated. But when Crowley puts it like that, it just makes sense.

“Although …”

Aziraphale perks up. “Although?”

“Er …” Crowley shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“Oh, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t start a thought aloud and then not finish it. That’s hardly fair.”

“I’m a demon. I don’t play fair.”

“Crowley.”

The demon sighs. “Alright, but you aren’t going to like it.”

“How do you know?”

“I just _know_.”

“I may surprise you.”

“ _Or_ you’ll be predictable and upset.” Crowley slithers off the windowsill. How he manages to move like a serpent even in his human form is beyond Aziraphale, but he manages it all the same. He makes his way over to the vinyl, and changes the record. “Fine. I’ll tell you.”

The new record starts. It’s the other side of _Best of Queen_.

“I like you.”

Aziraphale blinks. This isn’t much of a revelation. Crowley doesn’t waste his time on things he thinks are dull, or boring. Of _course_ he likes Aziraphale. After enough time on Earth, even your enemy stops being an enemy.

“I like you too.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Don’t tell me how I feel!”

“But you _don’t_ ,” Crowley insists. He fiddles with a record. The cover is Pink Floyd, which he can only tell because of the prism design. “Not like I do.”

“I might.”

Crowley shakes his head. “No, listen to me. Aziraphale, I _like you_.”

The angel blinks.

 _Oh_.

“Like … romantically?”

“Kinda.” Crowley won’t meet his eyes.

“Oh.”

They stand in silence as Crowley fiddles with the record cover. Freddie Mercury sings about his best friend. “Is that okay?”

Aziraphale frowns.

 _Is_ it okay?

He’s never really thought about Crowley in such a way. He’s never thought of _anyone_ in that way. It’s just not really been a concern of his. He knows he and Crowley have a different relationship, one that can’t be explained to humans for reasons _beyond_ the circumstances of their meeting. He’s closer to Crowley than perhaps anyone else he knows, and he certainly _prefers_ the demon’s company above all others. He’s not sure if that means he’s got romantic feelings for the demon, but knowing his friend has those types of feelings towards him doesn’t repulse him.

“Yeah.”

He’s not sure what that means for them, but he’s sure they’ll figure it out. They always figure something out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now on, will do updates once a week on Wednesdays (not including this Wednesday).


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. I got excited. And wrote like, 15 chapters in one sitting. (they are very short chapters). Thus I present you with a chapter a week earlier than I thought I would.

It’s been two weeks since the Confession and nothing has changed. Crowley is starting to think the capital C is unnecessary.

Their routine is undisturbed. Honestly, this is the best possible outcome he could’ve expected. He _knows_ Aziraphale doesn’t feel that way about him, and it’s not like it pains him anymore. It’s just a fact of life.

God is female.

Michael is a wanker.

Crowley is just a little bit in love with Aziraphale.

He thought _something_ would be different. Maybe not in their relationship, but in his feelings. Like looking at the angel would cause an ache in his chest, or the reminder than the angel doesn’t feel any love for him beyond that all-encompassing love for all things that he’s obligated to feel makes him squirm. It doesn’t. It’s … quite frankly, it’s pretty anticlimactic.

He knows had he mentioned it earlier in their relationship, perhaps some of those things would’ve happened, but since Armageddon’t, everything else seems kind of minor. He’s basically been fired from Hell, and without God breathing down Aziraphale’s back, their relationship has changed. They’re closer now, without fear of retribution. 

It lets them work their way through this ... whatever it is.

It would probably be bad if Aziraphale told him he felt the same. If the angel tried to force himself to feel something for the demon, out of obligation or something. He's exactly the type to do that sort of thing.

They’re hanging in the reading room fourteen days later, where the big Confession happened (he really does need to drop that capital letter), when a thought occurs to him.

“I didn’t er, I didn’t go along with the whole marriage idea to try and take advantage of you. Or the situation.”

“I know.”

“Right.” Of course Aziraphale knows. He understands Crowley better than Crowley understands himself. “Just … thought I should clear that up. In case it wasn’t clear.”

They fall into silence, until—

“Er, do you mind if I ask you some questions? About it?”

“It?” Crowley echoes. “My feelings are an ‘it’ now?”

“I didn’t mean to be insensitive—”

“I was joking,” Crowley assures him. “Go ahead.”

Aziraphale nods and puts his book aside. Crowley decides that probably means he should at least sit up in a completely straight position for this talk. Surprisingly, his nerves are startlingly calm.

They sit in silence.

“You going to ask?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Course you are.”

“Sorry—”

“No, take your time, angel.”

Aziraphale does.

Ten minutes later, he opens his mouth.

“How … I mean, is there … when it happens, is there like … a sign? Or rather, how do you …” The angel’s forehead creases. “That was bad.”

“That was _dreadful_. Especially considering how long you had to think of your question.”

“You’re absolutely right. Erm. I mean … it’s … How do you know?”

“That I like you?”

“That you like me more than a friend.”

Crowley leans back and stretches out his legs. May as well get comfortable. “Ah, I dunno. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I _don’t_ know my own feelings.”

“I didn’t mean to imply you didn’t.”

“I know, angel.” Crowley lifts the needle from the record, stopping David Bowie mid-lyric. “It’s … I’m fond of you.” He wrinkles his nose. “No, scratch that. Erase that. That was a shitty explanation. I … erm, I’ve never had to explain it.” He tilts his head up towards the ceiling. “I’m not avoiding looking at you.”

“I know you’re not.”

“Good, so long as you know that.” Crowley’s feet hit against each other. “I just like you. There’s nothing else to it. Why is the sky blue?"

"Well, scientists say it's because of the way light reflects off the water's surface."

Crowley stares at him.

"That wasn't ... you didn't actually want an answer to that, did you?"

"No, but I'm glad you have one." The demon is smiling. He can't help it. It's just so ... _Aziraphale_. "I'm not like, in lust, or whatever. I don't want to ... what's the saying? Climb you like a tree. That's never occurred to me. It's not the type of 'like' that humans mean. Not really. It's not, like, _sexual_ , or anything. That's a huge deal for humans, ain't it? Not for me.

"I don't have a great attachment towards your physical body. It's not _you_ , it's one of many ways you manifest. I don't find you attractive the way humans do ... well, no. I do, but not to that _extent_. Erm. Which is to say, you're attractive. Objectively speaking. But your body is a _part_ of you, that's detachable. Like those dolls that come with a lot of outfits?" He shakes his head. "This is getting worse and worse."

Aziraphale chuckles ever so slightly. It's not mean-spirited. He's amused, and Crowley joins him in his laughter. It's good to know how to laugh at yourself.

"You're ... _you_. And I like that. You're ... neat. Shit, that's like, a thousand times worse than fond.

"Can't I just like you? For no reason? Examples are just examples, but it doesn't explain shit. I like you. Plain and simple."

There's not even music to distract them from the silence this time.

It should be awkward. Crowley _designed_ these types of conversations to be stifling, and discomforting. They're not _meant_ to be enjoyable. The silence is designed to force the humans to stew over their anxieties, without confirmation or rejection, letting their own mind destroy them without having to lift a finger.

This isn't that. It's a companionable silence, the type he supposes you can only get after six millennia.

“Do you love me?”

It _should_ be teasing. It _should_ be interrogative. It _should_ be self-aggrandizing. But it's Aziraphale and so it's nervous, delicate, but unendingly curious.

“I dunno.”

Crowley likes to _say_ he’s in love with Aziraphale, but he’s never put much thought into it. He hit a barrier sometime around the 14th century of realizing not only his feelings, but that they were unlikely to be reciprocated, and then they just ... live inside of him. Never pulled out, never examined an awful lot. He doesn't _pine_. Demons don't do _pining_. Denial though ... oh, they are experts at it. 

“Maybe. I could, probably.”

“Mhmm.”

It's not a dismissal, it's an acknowledgement of his sentence. It's the way Aziraphale hums in response to just about anything to make sure Crowley knows he heard him, not to give any input.

They're on opposite sides of the room, and it feels too far but also too close, but this tension that exists between them is a comfortable one. A familiar one. Crowley enjoys it, basks in it, as he thinks about his feelings more than he's ever dared in his long existence.

"So there's no ... like, sign?"

"Nope," the snake of Eden says, popping the "p". "Just a feeling. You just ... _know_ sometimes. Suppose you could say it's ..." He pauses, a sly grin appearing on his face. "Ineffable?"

Aziraphale laughs. It's full bodied and all-encompassing and Crowley's wearing a shit-eating grin and it's _wonderful_. 

The laughter dies out naturally and they are left in silence once more.

"Do you want me to stop?"

Aziraphale looks at him, and he feels like he's on the Wall again, unsure of how to read the angel before him, unsure of whether this was a mistake. "Liking me?"

"Yeah." He sounds quieter than he wants to.

"I said it was okay."

"But that was _ages_ ago. You could've changed your mind. You're allowed to change your mind."

"I know." The angel lets out a deep breath, then his mouth quirks into an odd shape. Not a smile, nor a frown. Just ... a shape. "Could you? Stop liking me, I mean."

"I ... I'm not sure."

Crowley thinks of Aziraphale. The nervous way he flutters his hands, the excited way he flaps his arms when he's excited. The slouching position he inevitably falls into when he's had too many glasses of wine, as though he's trying to become One with the sofa. His preference for brewing his own cocoa than Miracling it. 

"Don't think so."

Aziraphale nods. "Well, I'm still okay with it."

"Cool. Not that like, I need your permission to feel things."

Aziraphale frowns. "But you would've stopped if I told you to?"

"Dunno what I would've done. You didn't tell me to stop though, so there's no point in considering hypotheticals like that." 

They sit in silence for awhile longer.

“Can I put the music back on?”

“Go ahead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole "Do you want me to stop?" and the "no", is inspired by the Tenth Doctor's first scene with Rose in the TARDIS after his regeneration, when she asks him if he can change back and he's desperate to please her but has to tell her he can't turn back into Nine.


	12. Chapter 12

Crowley’s behaviour doesn’t change.

He doesn’t make moves on Aziraphale, or try to get closer to him. He’s not weird about it at all.

A part of the angel wishes he was, so that he could understand. With no physical proof of what Crowley feels, he’s almost certain he imagined the confession.

He thinks about his relationship with the demon. More than usual.

He hasn’t really learned anything from his conversation about Crowley’s feelings. There’s nothing to look for, no signs the angel may reciprocate, and is merely unaware of his own feelings. From the way Crowley talks about it, it just seems to be a thing you _know_. Not for any particular reason. Nothing triggers the emotions, they just _exist_.

So Aziraphale doesn’t force himself to feel a certain way towards the demon. They continue their routine as usual. Everyone continues to think they’re married. Crowley doesn’t refute them, but he doesn’t agree with them either. He plays with the kids during BBQ nights. Aziraphale socializes with the adults of South Downs.

Life passes as it normally does.

And then something clicks.

The angel is reading in the room with the giant window, which overlooks the garden Crowley has worked hard to make. The window is open ever so slightly, so he can hear as the demon belittles his petunias. He’s waving his spray bottle around wildly and _hissing_.

“Crowley?”

“Not now, angel!” The redhead turns on his begonias. “You! Don’t think just because you’re doing marginally better than those others flowers, I’m going to go easy on you!”

“Crowley.”

“In a second, Aziraphale.” He bends down to the dirt and glares at the stems of his tomato plants. “You better not even _think_ about having crooked stalks.”

“Crowley.”

“WHAT?”

The demon’s sunglasses have slipped down his nose ever so slightly. There’s a frantic look in his eyes.

“I like you.”

“I like you too, angel. Now, _roses_ —”

“Crowley, I _like_ you.”

“Yes, I know— oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh’.”

Crowley’s arm falls limply at his side. He inches forward slightly, his brows furrowed. “Are you sure?”

“Quite.”

“Huh. Would you look at that.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“You can go back to scolding your garden.”

“Right. Thanks, angel.”

Crowley returns to tending to his flowers, his posture just slightly different. Aziraphale gazes on with a new fondness in his eyes.


	13. Chapter 13

So. Aziraphale likes him.

That’s new.

Crowley’s not quite sure what to do with that information, if he’s being perfectly honest.

You’d think, considering how long he’s had his feelings for the angel he’d have _some_ idea of his next course of action. The answer to that is no. He does not.

He’s pretty good with how their relationship is now. He doesn’t want for anything. He’d _like_ to do other things, more romantic things, but Crowley’s never been good at those sorts of things. He wouldn’t even know where to begin. So he doesn’t do anything.

He goes to bed every night knowing Aziraphale likes him back.

It feels surreal.

He’s not so insecure that he doubts Aziraphale’s ability to understand his own emotions. It’s kind of a relief that the angel is as clueless as he is about what to do next.

Six months after moving into the cottage, Aziraphale lifts the needle from the record player.

“Hey!” Crowley miracles the needle back onto the record, but Aziraphale pulls it back off. “I’m assuming this means you want to talk?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, talk.”

The angel frowns. “I don’t want to have this talk when you’re in a bad mood.”

“I’m not in a bad mood. I was just enjoying my music.”

Aziraphale places the needle back onto the record. “Is that better?”

“Much.” Crowley makes himself comfortable. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Us.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “There’s an us?”

“I like to think there is.”

“What does that even mean?” Crowley wrinkles his nose. “An ‘us’. It’s just a word. A very stupid word, with very little meaning. Language is a shitty way to communicate.”

“I’m trying to be serious here, Crowley.”

“I’m also being serious. Language is shit. No wonder people start wars at the drop of a hat. No one knows what anything means anymore.”

There’s silence.

“So. Us.”

“Yes, us,” the angel repeats. “What are we?”

“I like to think we’re friends,” the redhead says. “And last I checked, you were okay with that descriptor. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

“No, it’s a good title. Label. Whatever you want to call it.”

“See? Language is shit.”

Aziraphale glares at him.

“Right, not the point.” Crowley plays with the threads in the oriental carpet. “So we’re friends. Seems pretty straight forward to me.”

“But we like each other. Romantically.”

“Yup.”

“So doesn’t that mean we should be more than friends?”

Crowley lowers his sunglasses slightly. “Do you want to be something more than friends?”

“I dunno.”

The demon nods. “S’okay. We don’t have to use human words. We’re just … us. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Sure, but … I mean, if we like each other, shouldn’t we do something about it? Instead of just … staying the same?”

“This is really twisting you into knots, isn’t it, angel?”

“A little bit.”

Crowley snaps his fingers. The needle lifts off the record. “We don’t have to be anything other than what we are. We’re on _our side_ , remember? We don’t have to fit into boxes made by humans. We’ll go at our own pace. No pressure. No expectations.”

“No pressure,” Aziraphale breathes. “I like the sound of that.”

The needle falls back onto the record and _Under Pressure_ plays.

“Really?”

“Couldn’t resist.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LISTEN. When a Queen joke presents itself, it must always be taken.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LISTEN. I've written 40 chapters for this Goddamn fic that I love very much. I'm thinking I can do biweekly updates, and I think they'll be on Monday and Thursday instead of Wednesday.

As proud as he is that he and Crowley do not fit into the boxes human society tries to force them into, it would be nice to have a guide. _Some_ idea about where to go with this thing between them. He doubts there is a book on it ( _Courting for Immortal Beings: Demon and Angel Edition_ would cater to a very narrow audience).

Despite being around for over six millennia, Aziraphale has never paid that much attention to inter human relations of the romantic kind. It’s never been a concern of his. He doesn’t even know where to begin, but he figures he must start small.

Nicknames are a thing lovers are fond of. They often relate to food, for some reason.

_May as well give it a shot._

Clearing his throat, Aziraphale leans out the kitchen window.

“Honey, tea’s ready!”

Crowley doesn’t react.

Maybe he chose the wrong name.

“Sweetheart, the kettle’s done!”

The redhead continues to spray his plants. There’s not even a pause in his movements, no sign of recognition.

“Crepe!”

Crowley turns around. “Did you make crepes?”

“What? No, I was calling _you_ crepe.”

Crowley wrinkles his nose. “Why would you do that?”

“Because …” _Because human lovers do that._ It feels like a stupid reason to voice aloud. “Because you call me angel. Can’t I call you something sweet?”

Crowley’s nose crinkles. “I don’t call you angel. Well, I _do_ , but not like _that_. I don’t mean it that way.” He tosses off his gardening gloves. “Hold just a mo, I’ll be right in. Tea’s ready, yeah?”

“Erm, yes.”

Crowley comes in through the door and makes his way over to the sink. He refills his spray bottle. “You don’t need to call me some kind of nickname, or whatever they’re called.”

“Then what do I call you?”

“What you normally do.” Crowley takes a sip of his tea. “That’s a good cup, angel.”

“See! You do that! You call me by an endearment.”

“It’s not an endearment, it’s what you _are_ , Aziraphale.” Crowley rolls his eyes. “ _Other_ people use it as an endearment. _I_ don’t. You’re just you, angel. An angel. So I call you angel.”

“But I can’t just call you _demon_ , that sounds mean.”

“That’s because it is mean.”

“Why can you call me angel and I can’t call you crepe?”

“Because you’re an angel, and I am not a crepe,” Crowley says. “It’s really simple, if you think about it.” He kicks his feet back. “Look, humans call their lovers shit like _angel_ because they have an obsession with the divine. I do it because that’s what you are. It doesn’t have any special meaning behind it. You don’t have to call me anything other than my name either. It’d be weird if you did.”

“But how else am I supposed to verbally show affection for you, my boy?”

The demon grins like he knows something the angel doesn’t. “You just did it.”

“Did what?”

“You called me ‘my boy’. I respond to that just fine. You call me ‘dear’ too.”

“I call _everyone_ dear.”

“Oh, don’t I know it.” Crowley sets his cup down. “Listen, strictly speaking, I am not a boy. I don’t have a gender. Neither do you. But you call me ‘my boy’, and I know you’re talking about me. You call me Crowley, the name I _chose_ for myself. I don’t need a sickening endearment to tell me you care about me. I _know_ you do.”

The demon sprays the air above him for a moment, testing out his bottle. “Wonderful cup of tea Aziraphale. Now I’ve got to get going and terrify the vegetables again.”

“I’m overthinking this, aren’t I?”

“That you are, angel. That you are.”

Aziraphale smiles.

They’re good like this. Just being _them_.

He doesn’t need a manual to figure out how to navigate this new angle of their relationship. He’s got Crowley by his side. They’ll figure it out.

They always do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALSO a question: this fic is currently rated T. I was thinking about writing Crowley and Aziraphale trying the more ... intimate parts of their relationship as well, making it as awkward and sweet as the rest of this fic. I believe they're a very healthy example of a good, asexual relationship and so I guess the question would be if I should post that sort of thing in a separate story because once that starts happening, I imagine most of the chapter are just going to be smut.


	15. Chapter 15

“You’re staring.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry.”

“I didn’t say it was bad.”

“Well, if it’s not bad, why’d you mention it?”

“I just meant I’m not … I dunno, I’m not used to you staring.”

“Where am I supposed to look if I’m hanging around you?”

The angel shakes his head. “No, I just meant … never mind. I don’t even know what I meant.”

Crowley taps his fingers on the kitchen table thoughtfully.

The demon can hardly get on Aziraphale’s back for being weird about things like endearing nicknames when he himself is sort of losing his shit over the concept of touch, and how it applies to their new … whatever they are.

He’s never been the touchy-feely type, though at the same time he’s never actively avoided touching someone. Except Aziraphale. But the circumstances are different between two immortal beings, in ways that those cursed with mortality just can’t comprehend.

In the beginning, and also, well, the Beginning, Crowley thought touching the angel would hurt him. Allowing heavenly hands to touch his skin felt like asking for trouble. He’s no longer allowed to feel Her Grace, so he assumed it extended to angelic Graces as well.

In Rome, he realized he was wrong.

It was also in Rome that he realized watching the angel eat oysters was perhaps more lust inspiring than the oysters themselves were rumoured to be.

Some odd hundred years later (around the Library of Alexandria), he had come to terms with his feelings towards one of God’s creations.

His relationship with touch is … complicated.

During those hundred or so years where he battled with himself and his emotions, he avoided touching the angel as though his corporeal form was comprised entirely of holy water. He avoided _all_ contact during that time.

After the Library, Crowley figured touching the angel couldn’t hurt, so long as it was purposeful. He couldn’t fabricate situations in which contact would be more likely, he just had to let it happen naturally. He felt weird about that, and he’s never really gotten over it, if he’s being perfectly honest. He covets those moments. More than is healthy, even as a demon.

After the Holy Water Incident, he craved the angel’s touch even more and learnt to sit on his hands about it, to the point where the urge just kind of … disappeared. He willed it out of existence through sheer force of will.

How does one go about even _beginning_ to undo centuries of self-taught restraint?

“Crowley?”

A touch on his shoulder brings him out of his thoughts.

Aziraphale is touching him.

On the shoulder.

_Aw, shit._

Crowley stares at the hand. His sunglasses lower on his nose ever so slightly.

“Are you alright, dear?”

“Everything’s tickety-boo, angel.” He laughs, perhaps a bit unnaturally.

Leave it to Aziraphale to tear him from his thoughts with just a simple touch. One he most likely didn’t think about too much. He’s making a big deal out of nothing.

“You sure?”

“Course.”

There’s a pause.

Aziraphale’s hand has not moved.

Crowley eyes it. “Something wrong?”

“Ah! No, I didn’t er,” Aziraphale lefts his hand away and scratches the back of his head. “Sorry.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

“Hmm?” the angel asks, turning towards the kettle, the tips of his ears turning pink.

“I _said_ I didn’t not like it.”

“That’s a double negative.”

“You know what I meant.”

“Then why’d you bring it up?”

“I was making an observation. Is that not allowed anymore?”

“No. And it’s hardly as if I could stop you from doing something you wanted,” Aziraphale huffs, pouring some Earl Grey into a cup. “I just thought … since we’re changing things, I didn’t have to be in a hurry to let go of you.”

“So you thought grasping me by my shoulder would be … what, romantic?”

“I never said that.”

Crowley grins. “You’re flustered, aren’t you?”

“I never said I wasn’t.” Aziraphale turns back to him, cradling his cup of tea. “You’re insufferable. You are very lucky I’m so fond of you, my dear boy.”

“Am I ever.” Crowley rests his head in the palm of his hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tease. Please, put your hand back on my shoulder.”

Aziraphale bristles. “I don’t feel like doing it anymore.”

Crowley lets out a bark of laughter.


	16. Chapter 16

“Hey, would you read to me?”

Aziraphale lowers his book ( _Jane Eyre_ ). Crowley is sprawled on the oriental carpet, his sunglasses still resting on his face, his skin-tight jeans looking painted on. He has a tie around his neck, but it’s not done up properly, and a part of the angel just wants to grab him and fix it.

“You can read.”

“Just because I _can_ read doesn’t mean I want to.” Crowley flips onto his stomach. “C’mon. It’s different when someone reads to you as opposed to reading yourself. It’s … better.”

“How can it possibly be better?”

Crowley scrunches up his nose. “I can’t explain it. Just.” He throws a book at Aziraphale, one that has probably been waiting on a shelf in some other dimension to be retrieved by the demon. “Read to me.”

“You’re awfully bossy.”

“Demon, remember?”

“You can’t excuse all of your behaviour that way, you know.”

Crowley rolls his eyes. His lenses still hide his yellow irises, but Aziraphale knows the demon well enough to instinctively predict these types of things. “You know you want to.”

“Are you trying to Tempt me?”

“No. Just a normal temptation. The adorable type of temptation I’ve been told partners give into when their significant other is being adorable enough.”

“We’re not partners though.”

“We’re us. Isn’t that enough?”

Aziraphale thinks it over and glances at the book. “ _Mort_?”

“Yup.”

“A novel of Discworld, by Terry Pratchett,” the angel reads the cover.

“ _Sir_ Terry Pratchett, the man got knighted.” Crowley hums and flips onto his back. “You don’t have to, not if you really don’t want to. Just thought it could be a fun thing we share. Since you’re always reading, and I mean, I _could_ read too, but it’s not really my thing. And besides …” He trails off.

“What?”

“I …” Crowley stares at the oriental rug, suddenly very interested in its patterns. “I like the sound of your voice.”

Aziraphale flushes. “Really?”

“Hmm.”

“I’ve always found my voice to be … well, mediocre at best.”

“That’s because it’s _your_ voice. No one ever likes the sound of their own voice. Credit that to Beelzebub, by the way.” Crowley draws a pattern into the rug. “Never mind. Just thought we could laugh at the man’s interpretation of Death. It’s not like, the _worst_ portrayal I’ve ever seen. Actually pretty accurate. But er, you know. Pratchett’s Death is a lot more … fuzzy. With humans, not just cats.”

“I can read to you if you’d really like me to.”

Crowley shakes his head. “No, now I feel bad. Like I’ve guilted you into it.”

“Was that not what you were trying to do in the first place?”

“Sorta.” Crowley shrugs.

Aziraphale clears his throat. “What if I read a chapter, and then you did?”

“Doesn’t work like that. Book doesn’t have chapters. Or sections, either, before you ask. It’s just … a long story.”

“But how can it not have chapters? Or a method of division? Even philosophers divide their writing.”

“What can I say? The man wanted to write, and not be disturbed by things like dividing up his shit into portions. Sides, I’m a shit reader. Comes with the snake eyes.” He lowers his sunglasses as if to prove a point. The yellow is gone as quickly as it appeared. “Also, don’t even think of starting to read it now while I go and get the kettle. I’ll feel worse about it. It’s not that big of a deal. Was just an idea.”

“I wasn’t thinking of doing that.”

“Sure you weren’t, angel.” Crowley hums under his breath as he makes his way to the kitchen. “Oh! If you really want to give me a treat, read me Genesis again. So long as it’s not that shitty King James version. We can reminisce about those early days.”

“But I—”

“Nope! If you want to read _Mort_ to me, it’s going to have to wait. Surprise me some time with it. But do know that I’ll be expecting it sometime in the next two weeks, so best avoid it before then. Also, it’s Wednesday, which means I need to get my one good coloured shirt out. And _you_ owe Mr. Smith a lecture on the war of 1912. He really wanted to tell you last week, and _do not_ correct him. It’s the version the humans believe, and we can’t go about mucking up history.”

It’s times like these that Aziraphale remembers that he really does _like_ Crowley. Not for any particular reason, other than that he is so … _Crowley_. He’s starting to understand why it was hard for Crowley to explain it when he asked.

“OI!” Crowley hollers from the kitchen. “Are you smiling?”

“So what if I am?”

“Don’t smile when I can’t be there to see it!”

Crowley pops his head back into the room, the teapot in hand. He frowns. “You’re not smiling anymore.”

“No, I am not.” Aziraphale resists the urge to smile. “The moment’s gone.”

“See, this is why I watch you. You never know when you’ll suddenly burst into a smile. I want to catch it. Give me a few minutes to pour the tea and get it all ready for you, and then you can’t take a sip until I’m here!”

“Why not?”

“Because!” Crowley calls from the hallway, “then I’ll miss _another_ smile!”

Aziraphale smiles gently.

Yes, he rather does like the demon quite a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LISTEN. I love Terry Pratchett.


	17. Chapter 17

“Let’s go for a walk.”

The angel pauses ever so slightly when picking up his cocoa. “Hmm? Where do you suppose we go?”

“Anywhere. We don’t need to go to the park. Our backyard is basically a park.” It’s not about being outside. It’s not even about the scenery. It’s about the company. But that sounds too sappy to say aloud, and Crowley is still _somewhat_ demonic, so he keeps it in.

“Get your coat. If we’re fast enough, no one’ll see us leave.”

“You make it sound like the neighbours are going to jump on us the moment we leave.”

“They might.”

Aziraphale laughs. It is perhaps the greatest thing Crowley has ever heard. “Alright.”

  
Their walk has no purpose. No direction.

It’s perfect.

Crowley can’t be certain why humans enjoy going on walks. He imagines it’s because it’s exercise, because the outside world is beautiful and every now and then, they remember to appreciate it. Maybe they like being close to each other. The demon certainly enjoys it. There’s a special type of _thrill_ that comes with being within touching distance of the angel. Feeling his body heat against him, a hairbreadth away.

But that’s not why Crowley loves walking with Aziraphale.

It’s the movement.

In sync, in time with Aziraphale.

Not too fast, not too slow, working in tandem to keep pace with each other. By each other’s side, no steps ahead or behind.

Equal.

It’s small, and he doubts humans think about these things, but there’s something beautiful about this activity that is done together in _every_ way, from the length of his strides to when his arm swings.

It does things to his stomach. Not bad things, not good things. Just … things.

And then he miscalculates.

His hand swings forward when Aziraphale’s is going back and their fingers brush.

_Shit._

He’s flushing. He’s glad for his sunglasses. Glad that the angel can’t see the way his eyes have blown wide, or the way his heart beats so fast, a normal person would say he has an arrhythmia. He glances at Aziraphale from the corner of his eye.

The angel continues walking, as though nothing has happened.

They don’t talk much during these walks. It’s to stare at the scenery, not about chatting or filling in silences.

Quiet is not uncomfortable for him anymore. Even when it’s a little unsettled, it’s never _bad_. Not with Aziraphale.

All the same, Crowley feels he’s panicking a bit too much about this.

Clenching his fist, he rubs his thumb over the knuckle that touched the angel’s. Biting his lip to hold in a sound, he doesn’t trust a single noise to come from his mouth. He kicks up his feet a little, tries to get back into the rhythm, the natural way they walk in time with each other, but he’s thinking about his footing too much.

This is such a stupid thing. _Such_ a stupid thing, but it’s starting to irritate him.

“Dear?”

Crowley’s head snaps up. “Hmm?”

“Are you quite alright?”

“Perfect,” Crowley says. And he would be, if the area the angel touched him didn’t feel like a burnt scar. A tingly warmth that spreads through his whole body, and a type of flame he’ll gladly collide into it. Skin on skin contact is _very_ different than through materials and he feels as though he’s acting like he’s just a thousand years old again. This is so _dumb_.

“You certain?”

“Absolutely.” He glances at the angel. “You?”

“I’m fine.”

“Right. Good.”

A beat.

“Should we head back, then?”

“If you want to.”

Crowley sways ever so slightly. “Depends. Do you want to?”

“I’m not bothered by either thing.”

“Hmm.” Crowley nods. “So … another five minutes?”

Aziraphale hums in affirmation.

They stay out for another five hours.


	18. Chapter 18

Aziraphale has an interesting relationship with gender, in that he does not have one.

He doesn’t understand the point of it. He’s never questioned his own. She gave him “male parts”, or so he’s told, and so he goes by “he”. He has never felt like “he” was an improper pronoun, and has never wanted to be called by anything else.

Aziraphale understands not everyone is like this.

Crowley’s relationship with gender is much more fascinating, in that it is complex, ever-changing, and changes on a century to century basis. He never changes himself, or the way he presents, _physically_. He never adds, er, _assets_ , and that’s the main difference Aziraphale personally sees between the two genders that She shows physically, though not all that exist. But sometimes Crowley wears dresses, and paints his lips with red, or enjoys high heels. He doesn’t respond to female pronouns, but he feels more “girly” on some days than others. He enjoyed played Nanny for Warlock, even if he’d never admit it.

It’s for this reason that Aziraphale is not at all surprised when he finds Crowley in the kitchen, frustratedly trying to paint his fingers.

The demon has pushed his feet up onto the table, and has an iPad on the table, propped up against the fruit bowl, watching a video on YouTube. A pretty girl is explaining how to apply nail polish with your non-dominant hand, and Crowley is clearly having trouble.

“Would you like some help with that, dear?”

Crowley spins in his chair, and nearly topples over. “Aziraphale!”

The angel pulls out a chair for himself and takes the redhead’s hand in his own. Carefully he plucks the nail polish from his already painted hand and pauses the video. “You know moving when it hasn’t dried can cause it to smudge.”

“Ah, I was just getting impatient.”

“Why not Miracle it on?”

“I felt like doing it the Human Way.”

Aziraphale nods in understanding. “Alright then.” He has Crowley fan out his fingers, and gently applies the brush.

They don’t talk. The silence is one of comfort, and Aziraphale relishes it. The stillness of the day, the domesticity of it all, it fills him with a kind of joy he does not know how to express in words. When he’s finished, he has Crowley lay his hands on the table and not move them.

“Would you like me to do your toes?”

Crowley’s cheeks redden. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

And so they reposition themselves. Crowley slips out of his shoes, and places his foot into Aziraphale’s lap. He nearly kicks the angel in the face when his hands touch him, and apologies profusely.

“I’m kind of … ticklish.”

“It’s fine, dear.”

Crowley nods, but refuses to look at him.

Imagine. The Serpent of Eden, _shy_.

“I may have lied,” Crowley says once Aziraphale has finished his toes and puts the demon’s feet gently on the floor.

“About what?”

“The whole angel thing.” He tries to fidget with his hands, but he can’t when he isn’t quite able to move them so instead he lets them slide against the table’s surface a few times. “It’s … sort of, an endearment. Sometimes. Not always. Depends on the mood I’m in.”

“Of course, my boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a cis female, I tried hard to get across that while Aziraphale doesn’t fully understand the relationship Crowley has with gender, he respects it fully. It’s my philosophy when I don’t understand matters related to identity. I hope it doesn’t come across as rude or anything, and I do understand gender is much more complicated than can be explained in a fluff piece like this.


	19. Chapter 19

  
It’s times like these, sprawled out on the couch watching _Doctor Who_ on the telly, that Crowley wonders if the humans really have unlocked the secrets to the universe.

Somehow a television show made for _children_ has captured the vastness of the universe. The beauty and unpredictability of it. That even though you’ve been there and turned over every rock, it still manages to surprise you.

He likes to think he’s not quite as mad as the Doctor, though he attributes that to no work of his own. Rather, it makes him think of a quote from an earlier episode he saw.

_“There’s a lot of things you need to get across this universe. Warp drive … wormhole refractors … You know the thing you need most of all? You need a hand to hold.”_

Aziraphale is his hand.

He’d be off his rocker without the angel. Without someone to stabilize him. Someone to talk to, to call him out on his bullshit. Even when they only saw each other every few centuries, there was something wonderful about knowing that the angel was _somewhere._ That they looked up to the same sky, that each time he set his feet on soil, it was soil the angel could’ve touched.

“Which one is this, again?”

“The house cat.”

“Ah.”

Crowley wonders if he could cross the space between them. If he could maybe fold into himself, make room for Aziraphale on the couch with him. Let them be side to side, able to feel the unnecessary rise and fall of each other’s chests.

“I like this one.”

“Hmm.”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t _not_ like him. He’s good. I’m more partial to the other one, personally. The skinny one, who licks everything. This one’s eyebrows are inconsistent. And there’s the way he dresses.”

Aziraphale shifts in his seat, holding his cocoa more firmly. “I like the way he dresses.”

“ _You_ would.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just. You’re one of the only people to look at bowties and think ‘cool’, and mean it. That fez was a total mistake though.”

This episode is one of his favourites, for quite a few reasons, but mostly because of the TARDIS. That beautiful, crazy machine that loves the Doctor more than any living thing ever could. There’s something about the dichotomy of the Time Lord and his vehicle’s relationship that makes Crowley _ache_.

_“Do you ever wonder why I chose you all those years ago?”_

_“I chose you. You were unlocked.”_

_“Of course I was. I wanted to see the Universe so I stole a Time Lord and I ran away. And you were the only one mad enough.”_

They don’t talk much when watching. It’s as if they really have gone native. Drinking tea. Speaking with funny accents they don’t have to have. Watching the Doctor on the telly. Have strong opinions concerning the European Union, without fully understanding what the EU is.

And then the end comes, as they both knew it would.

_“Are all people like this? So much bigger on the inside?”_

That’s when it clicks. It’s the word he’s been looking for.

Bigger.

Bigger than anyone could imagine. Bigger, greater, and more complex than can be explained with that shitty thing called language. More beautiful and unpredictable than even She could’ve hoped for.

What are humans?

Bigger.

_“I’ve been looking for a word. A big, complicated word, but so sad. I found it now.”_

_“What word?”_

_“Alive. I’m alive.”_

_“Alive isn’t sad.”_

_“It’s sad when it’s over.”_

He can’t stop himself from glancing over at the angel. It’s one thing to enjoy something on one’s own, and another to share it with someone you like. It’s like he’s never seen it before, even if he could recite every line in his sleep, it’s an entirely new experience knowing Aziraphale is seeing every moment as he is.

_“There’s something I didn’t get to say to you.”_

_“Goodbye.”_

_“No. I just wanted to say, Hello. Hello Doctor. It’s so very, very nice to meet you.”_

_“Please. I don’t want you to.”_

_“I love you.”_

Crowley shuts off the telly.

One glance at Aziraphale, and all he can focus on are the tears in the angel’s blue, blue eyes.

“Aziraphale—”

“Do you know … all those years ago … I _did_ choose you.” He’s quiet, subdued. “I did. On that wall. I didn’t _have_ to talk to you. But I did. Every part of me said I shouldn’t, that you were the enemy. I knew exactly who you were, _what_ you were. And yet I didn’t push you away. I couldn’t stay away.” Aziraphale bites his lip. “I chose you. Why did you … why did you choose me?”

Oh, there is so much to say for that. Such a simple question, with a thousand not so simple answers.

He thinks about the first time he saw him after slithering into the Garden. Took one look at him, and even without his wings spread out all large and wide, he just _knew. This one’s Heavenly_. Thinks about how, during those early days, while he was killing time, he watched as the angel looked over Adam and Eve, and he, well, he looked after the angel. He thinks of the _awe_ that struck him, hearing the being of Grace had given away his sword. How, when humanity took its first tentative steps into the chaotic world, all he could pay attention to was the angel with the crooked and nervous smile.

He thinks of the first time he saw him, when he was still in Her favour. When he’d occasionally ask him a question, and the angel would smile back at him, and bring it up the next time he saw him. The way he didn’t shush him about his heretical thoughts, didn’t think it was wrong to want to _know_. Thinks about how he is the only one who has ever smiled at him and _meant it._

He thinks of the Beginning, which was in some ways, an end of everything, but was really the start of something. Something he couldn’t define, but tried to as he trailed behind after the angel in his shadow, protecting him against humanity because it may be Aziraphale’s job to guard humanity, but who will look out for the Protector?

He thinks of the power the Principality has. Thinks of the soldier Heaven wanted to build, and the angel they created instead. Thinks of the justice that leaks out of his pores, of the sheer delight Aziraphale derives from enjoying the simplest of pleasures. His appreciation for Her creations is embedded in his _soul_.

He thinks of Aziraphale’s weakness for cocoa. Thinks about his use of bookmarks, though he never needs them. Thinks about his love for comparing translations of the _Odyssey_. He thinks about the horror on the angel’s face when it is suggested he sell a book of his. He thinks of the small dance he does in his seat when he’s about to dig into a good meal.

He says none of this.

What he says is:

“Because you’re bigger on the inside.”

What he means is _I’m in love with you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you guess what episode they're watching? (It's legit, my actual favourite episode of Doctor Who EVER of that Doctor, and in my top 10 favourite of all time)


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honour of Valentine's Day, here's some more Ineffable Husbands.

Aziraphale kind of wants to hold Crowley.

Any normal person would look at the demon and declare him unfit to be coddled, never mind held, but despite all his sharp angles, there’s something about him that makes the angel itch to pull him close. Maybe not to hold, but just feel him.

There are many things they teach you when you’re an angel. How to wield a sword. How to perform Miracles in such a way that humans take no notice. If there was a lesson concerning how to initiate cuddling, he was not there for the lecture. That may have been the lecture that also covered how to prepare for Armageddon.

Seeing as the demon reacts violently to being called “nice”, Aziraphale does not ask to cuddle. Instead, he offers to read.

Crowley gets himself comfortable on the couch in the sunlit room.

All previous dwellings of the demon have been harsh, with a clear preference for style over functionality. Their shared home is more in-keeping with the inner, somewhat mushy inside of the redhead. While the general colour scheme is in accordance to the angel’s pastel-ladder palette, Crowley’s influence is clear in the furniture. Aside from Aziraphale’s large, comfy armchair from his bookshop, the aesthetic of the demon is everywhere. Sleek, black countertops in the kitchen. Granite tiles for the bathroom. The cottage is the perfect blend of the both of them, despite their vastly contrasting interests, the cozy lighting makes the sharp corners of the furniture less violent.

The couch in the Sunlight Room is a black sofa with no arm rests, but a soft back support. It’s long enough that Crowley can sprawl out as much as he wants, and still leaves some room for the angel, which Aziraphale decides to take advantage of, seating himself near the demon’s head.

“You’re not going to sit in your chair?”

Aziraphale glances at his cozy, familiar chair. It calls to him, but despite being in the same room as the couch, feels so far away. “You can hear me better when I’m next to you, can’t you?”

Crowley lets out a non-committal hum.

“Well then. Let’s begin.”

And Aziraphale clears his throat and reads in a soft, gentle voice.

“ _This is the bright candlelit room where the life-timers are stored— shelf upon shelf o them, squat hourglasses, one for every living person, pouring their fine sand from the future into the past. The accumulated bits of the falling grains makes the room roar like the sea._

_“This is the owner of the room, stalking through it with a preoccupied air. His name is Death._

_“But not any Death. This is the Death whose particular sphere of operations is, well, not a sphere at all, but the Discworld, which is flat and rides on the back of four giant elephants who stand on the shell of the enormous star turtle Great A’Tuin, and which is bounded by a waterfall that cascades endless into space._

_“Scientists have calculated that the chance of anything so patently absurd actually exiting are millions to one._

_“But magicians have calculated that million to one chances crop up nine times out of ten.”_

Crowley shifts on the couch, sits up so that he’s almost leaning on Aziraphale. His touch is hesitant, slow, giving the other ample time to move out of the way, if he wants.

Aziraphale stays as frozen as ice.

“Is this okay?” asks the Original Tempter in a tone one would almost call bashful.

The angel lightly presses on the demon’s head, until it rests on his shoulder, finds his place in the book, and continues to read.

As a book that has no chapters, or any method of division, it’s an awful book. In the traditional sense. Crowley however is right about Sir Terry Pratchett. He understands the universe much more than other people. Perhaps even better than Aziraphale. Somehow, despite knowing how the Void is vast and endless, he manages to find humour. It’s honestly beautiful.

It takes until the end of the trade fair for Aziraphale to realize the heavy weight on his shoulder is sleeping.

The position is not very comfortable. Not for Aziraphale’s arm that’s beginning to go numb, nor for Crowley’s neck.

Neither move.

Aziraphale sets the book aside, and takes the time to admire his companion of over six thousand years.

One would think you would get bored, having the same company for so many years, but there’s always something new to learn about him, and the world around them. Aziraphale quite loves it. Crowley may possibly be the _best_ company one could have for such a long time. He hopes the wily serpent thinks the same of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not apologize for loving Terry Pratchett, and never will.


	21. Chapter 21

“You’re very happy today, Agent Crowley.”

The demon looks down at the young girl and lifts an eyebrow. “Am I, Lyla?”

“Yes, I noticed.”

“Very perceptive of you.” He lowers himself to her level, then thinks better of it. Instead, he sits down and crosses his legs. “Do I not normally seem happy?”

“No, you do. But you’re more now.” She tilts her head. “Is it because of Azi?”

Crowley glances behind him at Aziraphale, who is trying to sneakily steal thirds. He is fooling _no one_. “Who says it’s because of Agent Angel?”

“I did.” She grins, showing the gap in her teeth from the tooth she lost last week. “I’m right, aren’t I, Agent Crowley?”

Crowley reaches out and grabs her around the waist, pulling her into his lap. She lets out a shriek and for an instant, he panics. Did he hurt her? Overstep his boundaries and done something terrible, to a _child_ no less, but then the shriek continues and he realizes she’s laughing as his fingers dig into her sides.

“That tickles!”

“That’s what you get for snooping!”

It’s nice to play around with Lyla. She _is_ kicking him an awful lot, trying to get out of his grasp, but he can tell from her breathless gasps that she’s enjoying herself, so he doesn’t let up. He makes sure his arms are wrapped around her to stop the little girl from falling forward, making sure she teeters into his arms or against his chest.

She lets out a giant shriek when he gets his fingers beneath her knee, kicking reflexively—

“ _Shit_!”

Lyla freezes, and Crowley’s arms tightened instead of relaxing.

She twists in his lap and frowns. “Did I hurt you, Agent Crowley?”

Crowley holds his nose, pinching at the bridge. Had he been human, it may have broken. “Ha! You think you can bring an agent as good as myself to my knees with some amateur kick?”

Lyla’s eyes begin to water, as lightly as Crowley is trying to be about the whole situation.

“I’m so _sorry Agent Crowley_!”

“Hey, shush, it’s not a problem,” he says, trying to calm her, running his fingers down her arms, but his nose is now bleeding and that makes her cry louder.

It occurs to Crowley just then that he is only good with _happy_ children.

He’s about to do something stupid, and _very_ desperate to make the child shut up and go back to smiling when he’s handed a pocket handkerchief. Well, a handkerchief that is no longer in a pocket. Perhaps now it’s just a handkerchief. It’s been downgraded in status. It’s tartan. He hands it to Lyla only to have a tissue box shoved in his face.

“Honestly, Crowley!”

Aziraphale is behind him, his pocket empty a handkerchief.

“Oh!”

“Yes, _oh_.”

Crowley stares at the tartan handkerchief and the tissue box. “But I didn’t want to get it covered in blood.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, as if to say _I can just miracle it away, idiotic demon_.

Regardless, Crowley takes the tissues instead. Aziraphale drops to his knees in the grass and gently touches Lyla’s cheek. Crowley barely notices the blood anymore as he watches the angel with the little girl.

“Lyla, look at me.”

Slowly, the girl raises her eyes to the angel.

“Very good. Look at Agent Crowley, he’s got tissues now for his nose. You didn’t mean to hurt him, did you?”

Lyla shakes her head so forcefully, it’s as though she’s trying to knock it off her neck. She opens her mouth to speak, but she’s blubbering too badly to be understood.

“Then it’s all okay, right, Crowley?”

Crowley nods.

Aziraphale wipes at Lyla’s cheeks and dabs at her eyes with his handkerchief. She leans into his touch, and wraps her arms around his neck. Tucking her head into his chest, Lyla mutters apologies against the angel’s suit for hurting his partner, and then new apologies for dirtying his suit.

“It’s okay, darling,” says Aziraphale, not talking over her, not raising his voice. There’s no panic, or rush in his tone, not like Crowley’s. He simply waits until she tires herself out, then slowly pulls away. “Better?”

Lyla nods shyly.

“Good. Now, I think it’s time for you to go home, don’t you?”

“Sorry,” she mutters again.

“Ah, no more of that. You’ve already been forgiven.” Aziraphale taps her chin ever so slightly. “Chin up, Lyla. That’s a girl. Now, where’s that beautiful smile of yours?”

“It’s not a beautiful smile,” she says softly, personality subdued.

“I think it’s beautiful. Wouldn’t you agree, Agent Crowley?”

“Absolutely.”

“Don’t you trust our opinions, Lyla?”

The girl nods as if she’s trying to tuck her head into her neck.

“Hey, buck up.” His voice is so soft, so gentle as he gently pushes her to look straightforward. “Now remember this day, okay? Because it’s the day you managed to take down the infamous Agent Crowley.”

Lyla giggles.

“There’s that beautiful smile! Now, off you go!”

Lyla leaves with a slight skip in her step. She turns around and waves at him as she goes. Aziraphale returns it before turning to Crowley.

“My boy, you’re bleeding on your good shirt.”

“Are you saying all my other shirts are bad?”

The angel rolls his eyes. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Course, was just pulling your leg.”

Aziraphale hands him more tissues and chuckles.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just … the Architect of the First Sin, taken down by a five year old.”

“Lyla’s _six_ now, thank you very much.”

“Ah, well that remedies things.”

The two barely manage five seconds before they’re both laughing.


	22. Chapter 22

He’s being ridiculous. He knows it. If he were to voice his thoughts to the demon seated across from him, he’d surely get a positive response. In the sense of, _yes Aziraphale, Somebody, that’s a stupid thought._

All the same, he slowly inches his hand across the table.

Crowley is speaking about a little trouble he dabbled into over in Vietnam, not that big crisis, that’s sadly on the humans, but another small thing involving a stray cat. One of his proudest accomplishments has to do with getting an entire country to ban chewing gum.

He’s gesticulating wildly as he recounts his tale, which makes Aziraphale’s goal very hard to accomplish.

“Angel? What the bloody Somewhere are you doing?”

Immediately, Aziraphale snaps his own hand back. “Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing. That was movement with _purpose_.” His tone is playful, not accusatory. “What is it?”

“Nothing, my dear. You were saying something about the transit?”

“Yes, long story short I screwed up their fancy transit system through sticky subterfuge. Now on to a more important note, what were you trying to accomplish?”

Aziraphale is rather embarrassed, if he’s being totally honest. This entire situation is ridiculous.

“Ah, I was just … I thought we could …” he frowns. “It’s very foolish. No need to trouble yourself over it.”

“Now you _must_ tell me.”

“I wanted to hold your hand!” Aziraphale squeaks.

Crowley blinks. His sunglasses slide ever so slightly down his nose, making his irises just the slightest bit visible. “Oh.”

“I told you, it’s stupid—“

“Well then you just do it, obviously!”

And then Crowley grabs his hand. It’s rather aggressive and looks like they’re about to arm wrestle on the kitchen counter. The tips of the demon’s ears are turning red, and he’s not looking at the angel. “S’not that complicated, is it, angel?”


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically this and the next chapter are totally tied together and so as to not make you wait, I'm gonna post this one today and the next one tomorrow.

Crowley has a plan.

A magnificent, wonderful, BRILLIANT plan. Better than the Ineffable Plan, or the Divine Plan (which may or may not be the Ineffable Plan).

He’s also quite drunk, if he’s being honest. But that’s not important. What’s important is that he has a _mind-boggling fantastic plan_ , and it’s going to go _spiffingly_ , except there’s a slight hitch in it.

The problem with the plan is that it’s currently moving. Away from him.

So he pounces, the best he can to get his hands on the little bugger, except now it’s escape between his fingers!

His movements are just a tad clumsy, but he’s always been elegant, even when he’s smashed, so it’s quite questionable why it he’s incapable of catching his prey. Unless She’s having fun laughing at him. After having him pine for six thousand years, and just when he’s trying to prove his worth to his angel, She’s disappeared all his skill.

Perhaps his corporation is finally dying of alcohol poisoning. Or maybe he should Sober Up.

He does neither of these things.

Instead, he gets an even brighter idea.

He transforms into a snake.

There, now he’s in the form of a natural predator. Surely, it’ll intimidate the little rascal that dares to try to escape him. Take _that_ , Almighty. He may not have opposable thumbs in this form, but thumbs are overrated anyway.

Crowley encircles his target, humming to himself. He’s quite a smart one, _wily_ , as they say.

He squeezes.

The life drains out of his prey.

Aziraphale is going to be _so_ proud of him.


	24. Chapter 24

“AZIRAPHALE!”

The angel looks up from his anthology of short stories. The woman has just begun to go crazy in the room with the yellow wallpaper when the Bentley’s engine stops. He can tell from the tone of the demon’s voice that he’s drunk.

“I got you a present, angel!”

_Ah yes, he is utterly sloshed._

It’s funny, mostly because Aziraphale has never seen his companion in such a state without himself being in an equally inebriated state. “Oh, my dear.”

The demon is leaning against the doorway, a rather self-satisfied grin on his face. Clearly he’s quite proud of himself. “I got _you_ a gift!” He’s emphasizing the wrong words and it shows on his face, the way his nose scrunches. He tries again, but eventually gives up and practically lets himself fall forward towards the angel.

“I think it’s time you sobered up, now—”

“Shush!” Crowley hisses, his tongue escaping his mouth and revealing its forked nature. He’s losing control of his corporation, which is surely a bad sign. Aziraphale closes the door behind him before the neighbours see something they cannot explain.

“Look!”

“OH MY LORD!”

Crowley grins. “S’good, right?”

Aziraphale can barely breathe. There’s … well, Crowley has …

“That’s a dead rat!”

“It’s a _beauty_ , that’s what it is!” The demon holds the dead rodent by the tail, its face forever frozen in a panicked expression. He thrusts it forwards towards the angel. It reeks of death. “Take it! I did good, ain’t I?”

Aziraphale inhales, despite not really needing it. It’s mostly so he doesn’t swallow his tongue. “You …”

“Caught it. For you.” Crowley marvels at the poor dead thing, and it would almost be cute how proud he is, but Aziraphale is still getting over the _dead rat_ Crowley is presenting to him. ““Killed it myself, the old fashioned way. Tricky bugger, it was! Not bad for a first hunt, specially since I’m knackered!”

“I really think you ought to sober up, my boy—”

“You’re not taking it. Did I do something wrong?”

Oh, and now Crowley’s _pouting_. He’ll deny it to anyone, but there’s no other description for his facial expression. Resembling a kicked puppy, but worse.

“I thought you’d like it. Show I can provide for ya. Did I do it wrong?”

“No, no, you did _wonderfully_ ,” Aziraphale assures him, wondering how his life has gotten to this point.

“Then take it!”

With shaking fingers, the angel takes the rat by its tail and tries to turn his grimace into something of a smile. He doubts anyone is fooled. He’s more concerned about whether or not he can get away with the minor miracle of bringing the poor thing back to life.

“THERE YA GO! First of many, I assure you!”

“Yay.”

Crowley belches loudly, and smacks at his own chest. “Think I ougt’a sober up now.” The demon lets out a grunt as the alcohol leaves his bloodstream, and there’s a moment of pause between them as he blinks a few times behind his sunglasses.

Aziraphale knows the moment he realizes what’s happened.

“Shit.”

“Crowley—”

“I’ll just take that back!” the demon says, reaching outwards, trying to grab the dead rat from Aziraphale’s hands. “Didn’t mean to do that. Wires got a bit crossed is all, won’t happen again, I swear it!”

“You can’t!” Aziraphale says, trying to pull it out of the other man’s reach. He’s leaning against one of his tables, trying to get the upper hand even though Crowley is ever so slightly taller than him.

“Whyever not? You can’t honestly tell me you _want_ that thing?”

“You were very insistent I keep it—”

“Angel, I was _drunk_!”

“ _In vino, veritas_.”

“Don’t give me that Latin bullshit!” Crowley tries to climb over the angel to grasp the rat from him. “It’s going to start to smell,— oh, it’s already started.” He frowns. “I can provide better, anyway! And it’s not like you’d even eat rat.”

“It’s a good gesture—”

“It’s barbaric, and I should be above it!” Crowley insists. “I’ve got a better idea, anyway. _Please_ give me the dead rat, angel. I’ll get you something a _thousand_ times better.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “Oh? And what’ll that be?”

“A surprise.”

“Your last surprise was an animal carcas.”

“Which you seem to have developed an unnatural fondness towards,” the redhead says. “But I promise, no more dead things.”

Aziraphale thinks the memory of Crowley earnestly wanting to provide for him is enough of a surprise and a beautiful gift, so he hands over the rat and chuckles softly at the sigh of relief the demon lets out.


	25. Chapter 25

“Crowley?”

 _Shit_.

The angel is not supposed to be back yet. He’s supposed to be at the neighbourhood knitting club for another half hour at _least_ , giving him enough time to get the whole situation under control.

“One second, angel!” In a lower voice, he hisses, “ _stay still, you bugger_ —”

“Crowley?”

“Give me just a minute!”

Crowley trips over the damn bugger, because of _course_ he does. His shitty luck comes with being damned, though he’s quite sure the fact that he gets to call Aziraphale his has used up all of his good luck, if such a thing exists. He’ll gladly embrace his shitty existence so long as he gets to spend with the angel.

“Are you in the sunlight room?”

“Don’t come in!”

“You’re worrying me, dear.”

“I’m a big demon, I can handle myself,” Crowley insists as he wrestles Aziraphale’s surprise into submission. Unfortunately for him, the thing does not seem to be intimidated by him. “You cheeky shite, I’m the inventor of original sin, and you will _respect_ me.”

_“Meow.”_

“What was that?”

“Nothing!”

The knob of the door opens, and Crowley throws his jacket on top of the surprise, which lets out a very quiet “ _meow_ ” in protest.

“Honestly dear, what are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

Aziraphale is not impressed. The demon didn’t really expect it anyway. “And your jacket has developed the ability to move on its own?”

“Perhaps. The Almighty works in mysterious ways, you of all people know that, Aziraphale.”

The Surprise slips out from underneath Crowley’s jacket.

“I thought we had a _deal_ ,” he hisses at the same time as Aziraphale lets out the most adorable gasp that has ever graced anyone’s ears in the history of the universe.

The angel falls to his knees, and begins making cooing sounds at the small kitten. It’s black with white paws and a white tip to its tail. It loves Aziraphale the instant the angel touches it. _As it should_ , Crowley thinks to himself.

“Is this your surprise, Crowley?”

“Erm, well, yes.”

“They’re adorable. What’s their name?”

Crowley shrugs. “Up to you, angel.”

The angel closes his eyes, and thinks. Or maybe he’s communicating with the animal, Crowley doesn’t pretend to understand how the Divine works.

“Artemis,” the angel declares.

“Then Artemis it is.”

As Artemis purrs against Aziraphale’s knee, Crowley realizes he may have made a grave mistake. How on Earth is he going to get his angel’s attention now?


	26. Chapter 26

“I made that one.”

“Are you sure? I’m pretty sure that was Ezekiel’s work.”

“You think I don’t know which stars I’ve made?”

The angel and demon are sitting in the grass one night, starring up at the darkened sky. It’s beautiful. Aziraphale has always thought so. A part of him has always been jealous that he was never gifted the opportunity to decorate the Heavens like some were. Though, he doubts he has the creativity to make something like Alpha Centauri.

“Wouldn’t be the first time you misidentified something.”

“I blame the nuns."

“Of course you do.”

Nothing feels strained. It’s … _natural_ , and honestly it had been the biggest concern of his when they started … whatever this is. They are going at their own pace, which he’s sure by a human’s perspective is stupidly slow, but it’s perfect for them. Crowley seems just as much at a lost as he is at this whole thing. There’s something charming and delightful knowing that this is unknown territory for the both of them.

“You know …”

Aziraphale turns to Crowley. The demon’s head is tilted towards the sky, those damn sunglasses still on. His legs are out, spread wide in the grass making a large V, his arms supporting him from behind. He’s smiling ever so slightly. The angel doubts he even knows it.

“Romantic movie logic dictates this is when I kiss you. Or you kiss me. Whichever.”

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

Crowley shrugs. “Never really thought about it.”

“You haven’t?”

“Nope.” Crowley pops the “p”. He turns his head to look at him. “Why? Have you?”

“Well, no.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Want you to what?”

“Kiss you. Or, think about kissing you.”

Aziraphale shrugs this time. “I don’t think too much about bodily things. I don’t have a … I don’t have a _need_ to touch. Or to be close. This is good.” Aziraphale is sitting cross-legged, one hand in the grass. If he really tried, if he reached out slightly, he could touch the demon. He knows from brief contact that sometimes the demon runs cold and other times as hot as Hell. “We’re not _lacking_ anything because we’re not super physical, are we?”

“I don’t think so. And even if other people think we are, who cares? We’re us.”

_Us._

Aziraphale has developed an unnatural adoration for that word.

“Do you want that though? Physical things.”

“I don’t mind not having them.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Aziraphale worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “Is this what you imagined it to be?”

“You and me? Together like this?”

“Yeah.”

Crowley chuckles. It’s not mean. Aziraphale is sort of mesmerized with the way his chest shakes ever so slightly. “I never really … I mean, no. It’s not. But I don’t really know what I was imagining us to be like. I had ideas, sure. I had instances, moments I thought about. But the reality of _us_ isn’t something I ever thought about.” He turns to the angel. “You still like me, yeah? You’re not so Heavenly as to make yourself be with me because I like you, right? It’s cool if you don’t, like, feel the same. Or if you change your mind.”

“I haven’t changed my mind, though it’s sweet of you to keep asking.”

Crowley’s nose crinkles at the word “sweet”.

“And I wasn’t testing you, by the way. About feelings and stuff. About physical contact. Whether you want that sort of thing or not doesn’t affect how I feel.” Aziraphale twists how he’s sitting until he’s facing Crowley instead of gazing at his profile. “Though, there _is_ something I’d like to do, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Hmm?”

“May I take your glasses off, my dear?”

Crowley gulps. The angel can see the way his Adam’s apple bobs. “Why would you want that?”

“I just … I want to see your eyes.” Aziraphale hums. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s just …” Crowley exhales. It’s as though he’s pushing other than air out of his body. “Not yet? I just … I’m weird about it, I know.”

“Doesn’t matter. You don’t owe me anything.”

“That’s rich. After six thousand years of friendship, I feel I owe you _something_ for putting up with me.”

“Hardly.”

Aziraphale redirects his gaze back to the stars. They truly are breathtaking. “Do you think we should actually go to Alpha Centauri some time?”

There’s silence next to him.

Azirapahle turns to Crowley and freezes.

His glasses are off.

The light is dim, and Heavenly as he is, he can’t see in the dark. Not the way Crowley can. His eyes are yellow. They’re not golden, not amber, not some pretty colour or shade that poets would surely try to use to romanticize his demonic appearance. The one thing he most definitely cannot change, his snake eyes. A reminder of who he is.

A demon.

The Original Tempter.

Aziraphale doesn’t think his eyes need to be romanticized. They’re yellow. That’s just what they are. And they’re _his_.

“Thank you.”

“S’nothing.”

They both know it’s not.

When they go back inside, Crowley’s glasses are back on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell how hard I'm trying to push the importance of healthy asexual relationships? Or the fact that couples who are not super intimate with each other are totally valid?


	27. Chapter 27

“This placard is nonsense.”

Aziraphale leans over Crowley’s shoulder, his breath on the demon’s neck. He seems awfully calm, while the redhead is regretting making a comment in the first place. He’s not sure how to deal with the angel’s close proximity.

Eventually, the angel does back away. “You can’t expect humans to get all of history right.”

“But I mean, the fossils, they’re just … how do they not get it?” Crowley asks, examining the dinosaur exhibit. “These species are too ridiculous to have possibly existed, and yet they keep making movies and perpetuating them in schools, it’s misleading, is what it is.”

They’ve opted not to take the tour with the guide, given that Crowley doesn’t believe a single bit of hogwash they say. _He_ was there, he knows better than they do. Unicorns, now _those_ were real. These flying reptiles are utter garbage.

Aziraphale follows him as he disorderly leads him through the exhibits. The science isn’t all boogey, but quite a fair amount of it is. The angel quietly agrees with Crowley’s comments, and puts up a great deal with the things Crowley complains about.

While they’re looking at a giant holographic globe that shows a loop of the creation and dissolution of Pangea, Crowley reaches out and grabs Aziraphale’s hand without a word.

Aziraphale lets out a strange noise in acknowledgement of Crowley’s sudden touch, but otherwise remains silent. The demon determinedly does _not_ look at their intertwined fingers. Physical contact, the need for _touch_ , is completely arbitrary to him. Aziraphale’s physical form is completely non-consequential to the affection he feels towards him, but all the same there’s a strange type of comfort that comes when their pinkies brush together.

“Thank you,” says Crowley, glasses firmly in place, eyes staring daggers into the projection.

“For what, dear?”

Crowley ignores how heated his ears are getting. “For forgiving me.”

Aziraphale is quiet.

There are no remarks about never needing to be forgiven in the first place. Even if there was, Crowley wouldn’t believe them. He’s fucked up, he knows it. He’s done it a thousand times before, and he knows he will now, even with something as precious as this relationship with the angel on the line. He can’t do anything about the fact that he’s a disaster, only come to expect the stumbles and plan for them.

Aziraphale rubs his thumb along Crowley’s knuckles.

“My boy, I will _always_ forgive you.”

His eyes start to sting behind his darkened lenses and his grip on his companion tightens. “I think I’m done for the day. Want to head home?”

Aziraphale shifts and for a moment Crowley fears he will pull him into a hug and he’ll choke on his own spit and wouldn’t that just be completely _pathetic_ , but instead the angel squeezes his hand, in slow, steady increments.

_It’s his heartbeat._

It’s all very overwhelming, but just now, right now, he lets Aziraphale’s physical presence comfort him and bring him back, ground him in this reality. The reality of _their side_ and all that entails, and before he knows it they’re back at the cottage and Aziraphale has pulled him close ever so slightly and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“I had a lovely day, my boy.”

It’s times like these that Crowley remembers Aziraphale really _is_ an angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am here for "immortals make fun of museums", ALWAYS.


	28. Chapter 28

“I’ve got an idea,” Crowley announces.

Artemis is in Aziraphale’s lap, bathing in the sunlight as the angel thumbs through some of Shakespeare’s sonnets. “I’m sure it’s a terrible one.”

“Never said it wasn’t.” The demon snaps his fingers, and the record begins playing a new song.

“This isn’t Queen.”

“Not _everything_ I listen to is Queen.”

“You must admit, the majority of it is.”

“Are you complaining?”

“No.”

Crowley pulls the book from Aziraphale’s hands gently, and sets it aside while maintaining eye contact to make sure the angel isn’t really protesting the removal of his reading material. “I thought perhaps we could dance. _Not_ the Gavotte,” he adds quickly. “Thought we could do something a bit more … traditional.”

“Oh, but you know I don’t dance,” Aziraphale says, looking down at the kitten in his lap. He has no doubt Crowley would be graceful at any dance he put his mind to, but the angel is under no illusions about his own coordination. He was trained to be a warrior in Heaven. Soldiers have no need for grace and elegance.

“Neither do I. We’ll learn together, then.” Crowley holds out his hand, bowing ever so slightly. “If you’ll indulge me?”

Aziraphale can see the loving glimmer in Crowley’s eyes. He gently displaces the kitten onto the soft carpet and takes the man’s hand in his own. He allows the redhead to pull him to his feet. The two of them stand fairly close together, and Aziraphale wishes for the thousandth time Crowley would take off those blasted sunglasses.

“Do you want to lead?”

“It was your idea, perhaps you should.”

“Right.”

This close, Aziraphale can see exactly what Crowley’s eyes are doing, and they are frantically searching the ether for an answer as to how to proceed. He puts his hand on Aziraphale’s waist, and the other in his hand.

“Sorry, I’m slimy.”

“Nervous?”

“A bit.”

Crowley nods and counts underneath his breath, then takes a step.

Directly onto Aziraphale’s foot.

“Shit! I’m so sorry!”

“S’not a problem, dear,” Aziraphale says with a light laugh. There’s no tension in the air, just the general discomfort of two immortal beings trying to figure out how the humans do things. “Maybe we should speak aloud?”

“It’s not romantic that way.”

“No, but neither is disincorporating my toes.”

“Fair point.”

And so they speak their times aloud and after much trial and error, they begin to move as they should. It takes a lot of work, and much thinking. Their legs get tangled up at one point as they try to avoid stepping on Artemis, who rubs against Crowley’s leg and begs to be picked up, but they eventually get the hang of it.

When the record ends, Aziraphale dares to be brave and wraps his arms around Crowley.

The demon lets out a grunt of surprise, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he allows his hands to find their way around Aziraphale as well, and they stand still, just like that, enveloped in each other.

Aziraphale does not know how long they stay like that, but eventually Artemis starts meowing, requesting they be let into the hug, and the two of them break apart.

The angel is quite sure he isn’t imagining the flush on the demon’s cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very dumb and realized late that I forgot to mention the song they're dancing to. It's Elvis Presley's "Can't Help Falling in Love With You".


	29. Chapter 29

“I think I want to kiss you.”

Aziraphale blinks.

“Er …”

“You _think_?”

“I’m undecided.”

The angel hums. It’s not dismissive, it’s in acknowledgement. He’s waiting, for Crowley to explain.

“Okay, so remember last week? We were talking about the whole kissing thing?” He bites the inside of his cheek. “I’ve never been into it. The whole … making squishy fleshy parts touch other squishy fleshy parts.”

Aziraphale nods, as though this doesn’t surprise him. A lesser angel would assume Crowley’s done it all. He’s certainly _seen_ it all, but honestly? There just doesn’t seem to be any appeal to it. Humans need their mouths to breathe. Why risk suffocation for a simple touch? He’s seen them do _terrible_ things in the name of gratification, because someone had sex with someone they weren’t supposed to. Because they loved someone they shouldn’t have. Because they were the wrong sex (the AIDS crisis was _not_ his work, and if he ever finds out who was responsible, not even God can stop him from giving them their due).

“But I was thinking … maybe it’s not about … like, the act itself?” Crowley plays with his fingers. They’re long. He’s always thought that makes them awkward and kind of gangly. The good news is he never has to fidget with anything other than his own flesh. “Maybe there’s like … a meaning behind it? Maybe it’s like, a symbol. The way hearts are a thing humans lose their shit over.”

“You want to make an Effort?”

“No, not that.” Crowley sticks a thumb into his pocket. “At least, not yet. I’m not sure. I can always change my mind. Not sure if I’d ever want that … but it doesn’t really matter, because we’re not talking about _that_. Just … kissing. In general. Nothing sexual. Just … pleasurable. Pressumably.”

Aziraphale nods. “If you ever want to try it, let me know.”

“Well, _obviously_ I’d let you know. Who else would I kiss?” Crowley rolls his eyes. “S’not like I could _surprise_ kiss you. I’m _not_ going to kiss you. Now, I mean. Just like, in case you were … I dunno, bracing yourself or something. Just thought we should clear this up. Make it like, clear what we’re doing. And not doing.”

“It’s all good, my dear,” Aziraphale says and Crowley doesn’t feel so stupid for bringing it up anymore. “If it’s any consolation, I have no protests. Your corporeal form is very pleasing.”

“Have _you_ ever made an Effort?”

“No,” the angel chuckles. “But there is such a thing as aesthetic appreciation.”

“Oh.” Crowley ducks his head down. His cheeks may be matching his hair. Damn the weaknesses of human bodies. “Well, then … same to you.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re … appealing. Your physical form, that is. Is attractive. Handsome. Whatever you want to call it.”

“Thank you.”

Somebody, if only Hastur could see him now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember kids: consent is SEXY. And also awkward. But VERY important.  
> Seriously though, I thought it was very important for these two idiots to discuss this sort of thing. It's embarrassing as fuck, but unlike humans, it doesn't come naturally to them so it's important to talk about uncharted waters, no matter how uncomfortable it makes them.


	30. Chapter 30

“Crowley, _no_.”

“Oh come _on_ , angel! It’s just a …” The demon leans over and scrunches his nose. “A drop. Incalculable at this distance, but a drop all the same.”

They’re standing on a _cliff_ , overlooking the ocean. Aziraphale can hear the tides crashing against the rocks, and while it’s scenic and beautiful and Crowley is laughing and loose and _free_ and _breathtaking_ , Aziraphale has _some_ self-preservation left.

“We’ll be discorporated!”

“Not if you use a little miracle,” Crowley says. “C’mon, it could be fun. You can even keep that suit on. We’re not going skinny dipping or any of that shit. Just a little splash. I’m gonna go, even if you don’t join me.”

And then before Aziraphale can say a thing, Crowley is jumping.

“GERANIMO!”

Aziraphale shuts his eyes and counts for a second, and then he’s jumping as well.

They both hit the water with a _SPLASH_ that _should_ discorporate them, but doesn’t. It’s not a frivolous miracle. It’s totally fine. This isn’t an abuse of his power, and it’s not like Heaven is keeping tabs on him anymore.

Crowley pushes his hair back and grins at him. He’s clearly used a demonic miracle to keep his glasses on, and unbroken. “Falling ain’t that scary, is it, Aziraphale?”

“There’s a difference between falling and _jumping_.” He can feel the smile fighting its way onto his face all the same though. “You’re _insane_.”

“Maybe. Sanity’s overrated anyway.” Crowley swims away from him and then floats on his back. “It’s good here. Relaxing. We can have sushi afterwards alright? My treat. We could even spear the fish ourselves.”

“I _do_ like sushi …”

“I know you do.”

It’s _weird_ to be in the elements, just to _be_. The simplest of Her creations are truly beautiful. Feeling the sun beat on his face while his body’s cooled by the water. The gentle waves, the sound of Crowley’s soft humming …

It’s good. Very, very good.

Maybe even perfect.

Crowley’s hair spreads in the water, like an underwater flame. His body is so skinny, and while Aziraphale knew this from the swap, he sees it now. He’s knobby and stick-like. He’s got sharp angles, boney elbows and razor blade shoulders. He looks just a little like a skeleton.

Aziraphale adores him.

He’s always felt Love for all things She’s created. This feels different. Something warm is in his stomach. Similar to when he gets his hands on a rare edition, but different. Noticeably different. He won’t call it love quite yet, but it feels awfully close to what he thinks love is supposed to feel like.

He wants to kiss Crowley.

To kiss that laughing mouth, to feel it against his own skin. Feel it lift him up, light and airy. He wants to be _closer_ to that sound, to the man.

Crowley twists in the water to look at him. “What is it?”

“You’re beautiful.”

Aziraphale doesn’t miss the way the demon’s cheeks flush.

“Think you’ve had a bit too much water leak into your brain. C’mon, time to get out.”

Aziraphale smiles softly. There’s no _urge_ , no _need_ to be nearer. It passes as they go to the shore, but he thinks he understands what Crowley means.

Maybe kissing _isn’t_ about the touch. Maybe it’s worth trying sometime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you expect slow burn, even though they're already dating? I bet you didn't.


	31. Chapter 31

“Oh, Anthony! What a surprise!”

Crowley stands awkwardly on Kathy and Charlotte’s porch, twiddling his thumbs. He doesn’t _want_ to be here, not really. He’s a perfectly capable demon, thank you very much, but when it comes to making _food_ , especially the angel’s _favourite_ food, it helps to have a second opinion of someone who has, well, tastebuds. And the ability to digest food.

“Hullo. I don’t mean to bother you, but I … er, that is … I wanted to surprise Aziraphale with some food. Crepes. He really likes crepes. But I’m a shit cook, so I thought I’d um …” The longer he stands here, the stupider it all seems. “Never mind, I’ll just go—”

“Nonsense!”

Somebodydamn humans and their meddling ways.

The woman at the door, Kathy, he’s quite sure. Well, as sure as he cares to be. Honestly his brain just wants to tell him that the woman in front of him is Not-Aziraphale, so this is an improvement. Thereare many Not-Aziraphales Crowley has to deal with, only some of whom are worth the effort.

It _may_ be worth it, seeing as the demon hardly wants to poison the angel.

While Aziraphale has never been poisoned before, Crowley suspects it could happen. After all, Aziraphale can _choke_ on food, so he can also have it betray him. Not being able to eat really eliminates a lot of potential threats to his corporation, now that he thinks about it.

Regardless, he wants to cook for his angel, and making crepes is certainly a great deal harder when you cannot taste test anything on your own.

He’s welcomed into his neighbour’s home with an ease that tells him they’ve never been robbed. They don’t even have the courtesy to be _scared_ to let a serpent into their dwelling. Though, he supposes any threatening aura he may have emitted has been cancelled out with his association with the children of the South Downs.

It’s too much to hope that Not-Aziraphale (Charlotte) will let him make crepes in silence.

“I think it’s really sweet, that you’re doing this for him,” says the woman as she gets out her cookbook. It’s old, probably handed down through the generations.

“S’nothing.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. There’s no shame in doing something for the one you love.”

Crowley opens his mouth, about to say he can’t _not_ be like that, he just _is_ , the same way she will not be one day. He’s about to retort that _shame_ is something unknown to demons, that it’s ludicrous to even think that there’s a bone in his body that knows what that word means, when the other thing she says hits him.

_The one you love._

He’s a _demon._

Demons do not love. They _lust_. They _covet_. They _want_ , they _desire._ In the same way that demons are not _nice_ , they do not love. But Aziraphale has fluffy hair and his hands flutter a little before he picks up his utensils to eat a good meal and— well, Crowley’s never been a good demon. He’s never been bigger on the inside, but sometimes, standing next to Aziraphale, he feels like he could be.

“Oh, you’re thinking of him, aren’t you?”

Crowley shakes his head. He can’t be that transparent, surely? That a human sees right through him is, well, it’s _shameful_.

“Shuddap. Let’s just make these things.”

And so they do.

Crowley may develop a new appreciation for Charlotte, and her Not-Aziraphale wife. It makes him wish he could stop seeing mortals as hourglasses. Never the less, he thanks them and prepares the dinner for Aziraphale.

  
“Oh! What is this?”

“Crepes,” Crowley says, gesturing towards the table that has been adorned with the appropriate cutlery.

“Did you do this, my dear?”

“Who else would do it?”

Aziraphale smiles lightly and sets himself down in his seat. “Thank you, very much.” He reaches across the table and takes Crowley’s hand in his, and the demon feels himself heat up.

“Eat your food.”

Aziraphale does.

There’s something wonderful about watching the angel eat.

This is one of God’s creations, enjoying what God has created. There is no greed in it, no gluttony in the way Aziraphale eats. Each forkful of food is revered, appreciated and savoured. It’s not the act itself that’s so mind boggling, but everything that it means. That Aziraphale manages to find joy and love in the smallest of actions, and holds something as insignificant as food in equal reverence as he does the sky and the nebulas.

That all things hold a certain beauty to the angel.

Crowley wishes he could see the world through his angel’s eyes.

Once he finishes, he wipes at his mouth with his napkin. These are all small things, things that are unnecessary. Yet he does them the human way anyway, and takes joy in them. Crowley takes joy in that Aziraphale finds joy in them.

“Those were scrumptious. Thank you, my boy.”

“Was nothing,” he shrugs. There’s a nudge against his leg, and he sees Artemis purring against his leg. The amount of cat hair he has to miracle off his clothes is ridiculous, but he knows how much joy the little bastard gives Aziraphale so he picks them off the floor and coddles them.

“Honestly Crowley, I know that deep down, you really are—”

“If you say _nice_ , I’ll—”

“Soft,” Aziraphale finishes. “You’re soft.”

Crowley blinks.

Artemis paws at Crowley’s glasses, trying to knock them off his nose.

“As are you, angel.”


	32. Chapter 32

Crowley always looks like a mess in the morning.

Since he’s stopped going into hibernation, he’s been sleeping nightly. It’s his favourite hobby, one that Aziraphale has not quite adapted to. All those hours spent in a bed, oblivious to the world when you could be reading Byron, he can’t fathom why Crowley would willing give up such productive time to be immobile.

The angel doesn’t go into Crowley’s bedroom.

It’s not a rule, or a condition of living together (they do have those, things like Aziraphale is responsible for his own dishes since Crowley never uses them, but the demon has to clean his own wine glasses). It’s just something he respects because he understands the redhead deserves privacy, and living together does not mean he is privy to every aspect of his friend’s life.

All the same, he does wonder what Crowley looks like when he’s sleeping.

It’s always a toss up when Crowley will wake up, but once he’s up he’ll stumble into the kitchen dressed to the nines.

He moves slower, responds slower. Sometimes he stares into space for longer than normal. He walks … oddly. His knees don’t seem to know when to bend, or in which direction, and his legs can never decide which one should go first. He has heard the demon fall in the hallway, pressumably tripping over his own feet.

He greets Aziraphale with a tired “angel”, which always sounds deeper, lower. It’s gravelly. The first few minutes he’s awake and speaking, his voice is different. He hisses more, his rs become harsher. It almost sounds like he has a lisp. If Aziraphale had to pinpoint his inflection and speech patterns, he’d say he sounds vaguely Scottish in the early morning.

He walks by the window above the kitchen sink, and on the rare occasion the sun is rising at the same time, his hair looks aflame. He’s got a truly dreadful sleeping schedule.

His hair is always mused, a complete mess that sticks up in so many different places. Aziraphale wonders if it would feel prickly, or unbearably soft. Sometimes he has to stop himself from trying to reach out and touch him.

In short, Crowley looks _perfect_ in the morning.

He _does_ spend forever on his hair though.

(“ _It’s different when you design it to be messy!”_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you just read an almost 400 word soliloquy on Crowley's morning appearance? Yes, yes you did. This is what happens when you write a fluff piece with no coherent plot, or order.
> 
> (did I throw in a Scottish comment because I feel ROBBED every time David Tennant pretends he's from anywhere other than Scotland? why yes, yes I did)


	33. Chapter 33

One moment Crowley is walking, the next he misses a step and grabs onto the closest thing he can to ground himself.

Which happens to be Aziraphale.

The two of them go tumbling down one of the many hills that adorn the South Downs. It is not fun. It is not cute. It is clumsy, and sort of painful, and also Aziraphale is not exactly _light_ so when he ends up with the man on top of him, the wind is very effectively knocked out of his chest.

They’re pressed nose to nose to each other, and Crowley’s glasses may be crooked on his face.

Their breaths are intermingling together, and it feels _intimate_ in a way that nothing else does. Not in a lustful way, but it fills him with something grand and their eyes connect through Crowley’s lenses.

Crowley laughs.

And so does Aziraphale.

It’s the _greatest_ feeling. He can _feel_ Aziraphale’s laughter, feel the rumble in his chest, feel the shakes as though they are his own. Every single sparkle of delight in the angel’s eyes is visible to him, ad he’s not sure where he ends and where Aziraphale begins.

Crowley is so warm and _happy_ and he wants to kiss him.

He reaches out, when Aziraphale moves above him and the demon lets out an involuntary gasp.

“Sorry, am I squishing you?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

“My body can handle it.”

Aziraphale lifts off of him, and dusts off his suit. The moment is gone, evaporated into dust and Crowley wants to reach out and grab it back. Wants to grab the lapels of Aziraphale’s jacket and force the angel back on top of him, just to _feel him_ again. To feel the physical proof that they’re both here and this is _real_.

He doesn’t do that.

Instead, he plucks at the grass in his hair and laughs.

Aziraphale is looking down at his pants and frowning. “I think I have a grass stain—”

“I want to kiss you.”

The angel looks up at him with those blue, blue eyes. “Now?”

“Yes, now. If that’s okay.”

“That’s okay.”

“Great.”

The two don’t move.

“Er …”

Crowley lets out a nervous chuckle and reaches forward with a hand. He doesn’t know where he’s aiming for it to land, but it ends up on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He leans forward, tilts his head ever so slightly and—

“Ow.”

Apparently, Aziraphale had the same thought and they knock noses.

They both laugh this time. It’s nervous and anxious and just a little excited.

“Try again?”

“Yeah.”

“On three, okay?”

“Okay.”

Their eyes meet, but then Crowley feels that’s too intense, so he looks up at Aziraphale’s hair.

“One.”

“Tw— you know what? Countdowns are stupid and build unnecessary anticipation.” Crowley tiwe lts his head to the side and waits to check that the angel does not turn the same way he does. “I’m just going to do it, okay?”

“Alright.”

Now he’s sweating. Way too much. Ugh, that’s so not attractive.

“You’re overthinking this.”

“No, I’m not.”

Crowley leans forward and smashes their mouthes together.

He stumbles forward a bit more than he should and Aziraphale is not prepared for his extra weight. The two of them fall into the grass, and to make things worse, something about the angle was wrong so their teeth knock against each other more than their lips collide.

“You’ve got grass in your mouth.”

“Right.” Crowley sits on Aziraphale’s chest. “And you’ve got a new grass stain.” He wrinkles his nose. “So. That was … was that even a kiss?”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

A beat.

“Not going to lie. That was shitty. Like, _super_ shitty.”

Aziraphale nods. “Er … do you …”

“What?”

“Do you regret it?”

“No. Do you?”

“No.”

“Well. Good.” Crowley’s flushing. He gets up and offers a hand out to the angel. “Well then. That’s good news. Shall we head back?”

“Yes. I need to get these stains out of my pants. And _you_ need to fix those glasses of yours.”

“And get the grass out of my mouth.”

“And get the grass out of your mouth.”

Kissing is not as big of a deal as the humans seem to make of it. He doesn’t mind if all his kisses with Aziraphale are terrible so long as they continue to make him feel like this. The touch doesn’t matter to him. That Aziraphale wants to do it with him, that this is new territory for the _both_ of them, that they are trusting each other to guide themselves through it, _that_ means so much more.

Besides, it may have been an awful first kiss, but that’s what practice is for.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most under-used and underrated trope in Good Omens fanfic is Crowley's car giving him shit. Change my mind.

“Let’s go for a drive. Haven’t done that in a while. I’ll teach you how to control the car.”

Aziraphale blinks. “You mean the Bentley?”

“‘You mean the Bentley,’” Crowley imitates him rather poorly. The angel would think after several millennia, he’d be better at impersonating him. “Course I mean the Bentley. What other car do you think we own?” he shakes his head. “Honestly, angel.”

“I just mean … it’s your _car_. You sure you want me to … ? I don’t know how to drive a car.”

“Which is why I said I’d _teach you_.”

He’s irritated, but clearly fond. The oddest thing is that it isn’t a new tone. Now that he knows to look for it, it’s unchanged. Exactly the same Crowley’s basically always spoken to him.

“What if I wreck the car?”

“Nothing a little demonic miracle can’t fix,” Crowley shrugs. “Are you stalling?”

“No, I just …”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “C’mon.”

  
“Before you do _anything_ , put your foot on the brake.”

“But the car hasn’t started.”

“Do you _want_ us to suddenly start driving the second you start the ignition?”

Aziraphale puts his foot on the brake.

“Alright. Now, turn the key. Gently.”

The entire machine hums, groaning slightly. It’s an antique. (Crowley can protest all he wants about how he finds things old fashioned, and wants to keep up with the times, but he’s not fooling anyone. His car is ancient, and it’s his baby).

_Oh the machine of a dream, such a clean machine  
_ _With the pistons a pumpin’, and the hubcaps all gleam  
_ _When I’m holding your wheel  
_ _All I hear is your gear_

“Oh, hush you!” Crowley says, smacking the dashboard with more force than necessary. Before he brings his hand back, he’s clearly stroking the surface.

Aziraphale bites his lip to stop a giggle.

“Alright. So, this is the clutch,” Crowley points. “It’s your friend. Like, _best_ friend, ever. First, we’re gonna familiarize you with the clutch.”

They spend the afternoon on the clutch to the point where Aziraphale is certain he can perform the motions in his sleep, if he ever did such a thing. It’s the strangest thing to see Crowley _with_ his car this way. It’s never happened before.

It’s clear the machine is more than a means of transit. He fiddles with the radio, plays with the tapes, basically _purrs_ in contentment when the car does something good. It’s almost as if he really _is_ in love with his car.

The moment Aziraphale stops pressing the brake, the car lurches forward and Crowley hisses.

“Don’t do that!”

Instantly, he’s slamming on the brake again. The entire car jolts from the sudden shift.

“Fuck, I told you to be good!”

“Sorry, I—”

“We discussed this, you piece of junk!”

And that’s when Aziraphale realizes Crowley isn’t talking to _him_.

He’s glaring at the dashboard with enough venom to kill. He’s scolding the Bentley for … freaking Aziraphale out?

“We’ve got important cargo onboard, remember?” He leans closer to the board, whispering things that escape Aziraphale’s knowledge, probably something demonic in nature as the car’s engine revs back in response.

_I’d like for you and I to go romancing  
_ _Say the word, your wish is my command_

Crowley hisses at the car stereo.

“Alright, we’re done for the day! _SOMEONE_ isn’t behaving,” he snaps, reaching across the distance between the two of them to shut off the engine. As he’s about to pull back, Aziraphale grabs his arm.

“Hmm?” he asks, a bit more force than there would be usually.

“Thank you.”

Instantly the tips of the demon’s ears begin to redden. “Shuddup.” His tongue slithers out of his mouth just a little forked. He forcefully slams back into his seat and unbuckles his belt, slamming his car door rather harshly.

Aziraphale gets out of the car to see Crowley popping the hood of the Bentley and gripping the inner workings of the automobile menacingly.

“If I cut just the right wire, it’s bye bye engine, you know.”

Aziraphale can’t help it. He laughs. The demon is threatening his _car_ for working the way a car is meant to function.

The angel gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Come in when you’re ready. I’ll get the kettle going.”

He watches Crowley from the window with amusement as he sits on the hood of his car, playing the radio softly. His hand lifts to his cheek whether or not he realizes it.

_Everything’s all right, just hold on tight  
_ _That’s because I’m a good old-fashioned (fashioned) loverboy_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs I do not own:  
> I'm in Love With my Car by Queen (SO disappointed they didn't use it in the miniseries)  
> Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy by Queen (one day we will be able to write all the lyrics to this song using Good Omen fic lyrics)  
> ALSO I don't know how to drive manual cars ... I just ASSUME the Bentley is a manual car.


	35. Chapter 35

Crowley kicks his feet onto the kitchen table.

Aziraphale gently pushes at his ankles, trying to nudge him off the surface. With a sigh that is a touch dramatic, Crowley allows his legs to swing off the table and sits properly. Or rather, he swings his chair in the opposite direction and sits on it backwards. In this way, his leg can reach out and just get to Aziraphale’s seat.

Crowley grins. He wraps his leg around one of the posts of the angel’s chair and tugs slightly. The chair budges forward the slightest bit. Placing his foot just close enough to Aziraphale to feel the heat of his body, Crowley leans forward in his seat, lifting the legs of his own chair off the ground.

“We should go on a date.”

“Hmm?”

“We’ve never gone on a date before. Apparently, humans like those things. We should give it a shot.”

The angel puts down his book, a worn copy of _1984._ “We don’t have to do what humans do.”

“Thought it could be fun. Heard the local cinema is playing _Titanic_. That’s the ship with the bloody iceberg, yeah?”

“Was that your lot?”

“Nah. Well, sort of. We _did_ put an iceberg there. But we didn’t expect the humans to just … let so many of their own die.” He bites his lip, then shakes the thought away. “Anyway, I’ve heard it’s good. Not an expert in cinema, but could be worth a shot.” He kicks gently against Aziraphale’s shin. “My treat.”

“You _always_ treat me,” the angel says.

“Is that a complaint?”

“I do have money, I don’t need you to pay for everything.” The light haired man is getting ruffled, and it’s absolutely _adorable_. Hastur would laugh in his face if he ever voiced such thoughts. Crowley runs his foot along the man’s ankle, wrapping around his leg possessively and pulling slightly.

“Let me indulge your hedonism. It’s one of my favourite qualities of yours.”

“You make it sound _wrong_ to enjoy the delights of the world.”

“It’s not bad. Just … gluttonous. C’mon, give into your vices. Let me treat you. Give you something to enjoy. We can throw popcorn at the humans in front of us, and _oh_ , I’ve heard the kids like to do this thing where they try to attack each other with their tonsils.”

Aziraphale’s nose wrinkles. “That doesn’t sound pleasant.”

“So we won’t do it.” Crowley shrugs. “Just humour me. Spend some time with me. Outside. With others who can see us.”

There’s a paradoxical need to show off Aziraphale, while an equally strong desire to make sure he’s the only one who gets to hear that delighted hum he makes when he enjoys a good cup of cocoa. He wants to do something special for his angel, and he might be nervous and it might be showing with how much he’s knocking his feet against the light haired man’s legs.

“You don’t have to say yes. It’s not like … er, no pressure. I didn’t mean to …” He frowns, feeling like he should shrink into himself. “I just thought it could be fun. A lark.”

Aziraphale adjusts where the handle of his mug is facing and knocks back against Crowley’s leg, wrapping his foot around the demon’s leg.

“When’s it playing?”

Crowley smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fear I haven't apologized for my lack of footnotes yet. I AM SO SORRY FOR MY LACK OF FOOTNOTES. I don't know how to hyperlink them, and also I kinda just ... forgot. ONLY FOR THIS FIC. TRUST ME, I NORMALLY PUT FOOTNOTES IN MY GOOD OMENS FICS.


	36. Chapter 36

Technically, this is far from their first date. Many would consider their walks in St. James’ Park to be dates. Aziraphale has given up on trying to guess how many times he’s invited Crowley up for a drink after getting a bite to eat. It’s rather salacious if you think about it. Al the same, it feels different. He _knows_ it’s a date this time and it makes all the difference to his brain.

Crowley sets them up in the middle of the theatre, and hands him a large popcorn. There aren’t many people, perhaps only a dozen or so other than them. Aziraphale likes the privacy it provides.

They’ve never seen a movie together. Countless plays, but it’s been a while since that’s happened. In the years they looked after Warlock, despite being closer than ever, they just didn’t do much beyond their jobs.

As the lights dim, Crowley decides he’s no longer comfortable sitting up straight like a normal human being. It can be excused, given that he is not a human being.

By the time the opening logos begin, he’s repositioned himself so that he’s lying on the tops of the chairs, taking up perhaps three seats. He uses Aziraphale’s armrest to stabilize his weight, until he adjusts and lets out a hiss of comfort as he settles in for the movie.

Aziraphale has missed this. Watching something with his best friend. Crowley is close enough that he need not speak above a whisper as he shoots insult after insult at the scenes on the screen. He hisses some snide remarks, and occasionally points out inaccuracies. They’re closer than normal, enough that Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s breath on him.

And then—

_“Draw me like one of your French girls.”_

Crowley chokes on nothing. His cheeks pink, though it’s hard to tell in the dark room. The angel can’t tell if he’s uncomfortable, or just shocked. He can’t even imagine what sort of effect the sight is having on him, if any. Aziraphale acknowledges the woman to be beautiful, but that’s a distant thought, the way you admire a beautiful painting.

Crowley however teeters in his seat.

Aziraphale reaches out for his hand in the darkness. The demon lurches back from him, before eventually leaning in. The seat between them is suddenly non-existent as Crowley rests his shoulders behind Aziraphale. He leans his head onto the angel’s shoulder, and takes a sip from Aziraphale’s drink.

“Are you alright, dear?”

“Just surprised.”

“Do you want to go?”

“No,” Crowley says. “Just … it’s different.”

“What is?”

“Seeing nudity.” Aziraphale feels more than sees the demon shrug. “Last time I saw such unashamed streaking was those orgies Ben Franklin was so fond of.” The redhead shakes his head slightly. “I just … dunno. It’s _weird_.”

“Hmm.”

They fall into a comfortable silence when—

“What. The. _Fuck_?”

Aziraphale cannot hold in a chuckle. “Hush, my boy.”

“But … but that’s a perfectly good car. A _very_ nice car. And they just …” The angel can _feel_ the way he shakes his head. “And what possible position would you be in for that hand to be in that specific …?” Crowley lets out a huff. “That’s stupid. She better not get pregnant from that. But _oh_ , what if that girl from the start is the child of the child of Jack?”

“Are you creating a conspiracy theory for _Titanic_?”

“I’m just … speculating.”

“Of course, dear.”

And then the sinking starts.

Crowley’s _shaking._ Aziraphale can feel it against his body. He reaches up behind him and wraps his hand around the demon’s. “Are you alright, dear?”

“Fine.”

He’s lying.

Aziraphale says nothing.

By the time the old couple are lying in bed, the room filling with water, Crowley has made no secret of his tears. He’s slithered into snake form, and wrapped himself around Aziraphale’s neck. The weight is unfamiliar, but comfortable.

He’s an absolute wreck by the times the credits roll.

“I take it you enjoyed it?”

Crowley sniffles, back in human form. Aziraphale knows behind his lenses his eyes are red and puffy. He doesn’t mention it when Crowley kicks at the ground and huffs. “s’was fine. Could’ve used more nudity.”

Aziraphale hums.

They’re in the Bentley when Crowley hisses “ _bloody waste of a good gem!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I have a conspiracy theory about Titanic. And no, I won't apologize. And also, yes, I do watch the Cinemasins video and laugh at the sheer amount of times they say each other's names.


	37. Chapter 37

“Ah! Look who’s caught under the mistletoe!”

Crowley gazes upwards and frowns. That’s not mistletoe, it’s _holly_. Anyone with a brain could tell that, but he bites back his urge to correct them. The neighbourly BBQs have become indoor events since the weather has gotten colder, and he’s working on making the adults like him as much as the children.

They’re not _caught_ anywhere, and there’s no reason behind the mistletoe tradition as far as he can remember. He didn’t even want to come to this stupid party for Christ. The man would probably cry if he knew his birthday had become a capitalist’s wet dream.

Crowley prefers the way he and Aziraphale celebrate religious holidays. To call it a celebration would be an exaggeration. It’s always a humble night in with no relation to Mariah Carey (except for that one time he got really drunk and forgot to Sober Up).

“You have to kiss him,” says Kathy and Crowley _knows_ she means well, but he and Aziraphale haven’t kissed much since that first one. They’ve shared fleeting kisses, the kind you do absentmindedly on your way out the door, small brushes of lips against lips, and he doesn’t really feel comfortable doing it _here_. It’s _embarrassing_ , and while that’s okay when the angel is watching, the same cannot be said for the neighbourhood audience they’ve accumulated.

They’ll be physically affectionate on their own terms, not because some misidentified piece of greenery told them to. Besides, they don’t _need_ this sort of tangible connection the humans seem so caught up in. It makes those displays of physical affection that much more important, and even, pardon his French, _sacred_.

“I don’t really feel comfortable,” Crowley says at the same time as Aziraphale says “that’s not mistletoe”.

Crowley grins at him, and he knows he looks stupid but it means Aziraphale _listens_ when he rambles about plants and he suddenly wishes they were alone, just so he could show his affection in a way that he does, without the judgement of the humans in the room.

Crowley reaches out gently, takes Aziraphale’s hand in his and intertwines their fingers. The angel’s heat contrasts the demon’s cold hands, and it sends shivers down his spine. He pulls him closer ever so gently. Aziraphale comes willingly.

“Shall we give them what they want, angel?”

That blush of his goes from the tips of his ears down to his neck, and Crowley wants to look him in the eyes, with his _own_ eyes, without the bloody glasses he’s always wearing, but he can hardly explain himself to his company.

Aziraphale lets out a breath, and brings their hands between them. He glances up at the ceiling.

“But it’s holly,” he whispers.

“Humans don’t know the difference.”

“Well, I suppose.”

Crowley’s eyes dash around the room. “Tell me I’m not the only one who dislikes the audience.”

“You shouldn’t have to kiss me because of human tradition—”

“I _want_ to kiss you, angel. Very much so.”

“Well then …”

Crowley kisses their joint hands ever so gently. “Later.”

Aziraphale nods.

Their audience lets out a disappointed breath. “Cheater!” Lyla hisses, and Crowley actually feels _bad_ about letting down a six year old.

“You never said where,” the demon says. “It’s all about the fine print.”

The party continues on.

  
The moment they’re back in their cottage, Aziraphale prepares himself a cup of cocoa.

“Well, that was awkward.”

“Really? Didn’t feel that bad.” Crowley smirks. “You going to be reading the New Testament tonight?”

“Perhaps.”

Crowley hums in agreement.

They don’t mention Crowley’s words. Aziraphale moves around the kitchen as though it’s another normal day, and it really is. They exchange stories about Christ, and light a candle in memory of him. After sharing a bottle of champagne, Aziraphale goes back to his cocoa.

Before Crowley goes up to his room for sleep, he stops and pulls at Aziraphale’s sleeve lightly.

“Can I kiss you, angel?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen ever so slightly. “It’s not a very romantic moment, is it?”

Crowley scoffs. “I don’t need a romantic moment to kiss you. Waiting for the right moment is an excuse for inaction. Cowards wait for the right—”

Aziraphale kisses him.

Yes, these moments have their own kind of sanctity in them, and call him selfish, but Crowley would never share it with anyone else.

When Aziraphale pulls away, Crowley follows after him ever so slightly.

“You were saying?”

“Sneaky bastard.”

There’s no venom in it.

“Good night, my boy.”

“Night, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was the right time of year when I was writing it.


	38. Chapter 38

Aziraphale doesn’t really _do_ New Year resolutions. There’s no real point, not when you’re a being that transcends time and space. When there’s nothing but time behind you and beyond you, it really screws up your perception of linear events and so everything melds together.

No, he doesn’t do resolutions.

He makes promises.

This year, and all years after, he will never take Crowley for granted.

This year, and all years after, he will not hide behind excuses when it comes to his feelings.

This year, and all years after, he will be on _their side_.

It’s ridiculous to think a new year means a new beginning. It’s that kind of thinking that gets humans waiting for new years, waiting for certain days to start something new, or to begin a project.

Waiting for the right moment really _is_ an excuse to justify inaction.

They don’t spend New Year’s Eve with their neighbours. Instead, Crowley takes him to the hills and they lay on the top of the Bentley, staring at the stars. Queen plays softly, and it’s perfect.

In the Beginning, it was just them.

Six thousands years later, it’s just them once again.

Crowley is a steady constant in a world who’s only certainty is uncertainty, and Aziraphale fears the demon does not understand how precious he is to him.

He glances at him, sees his side profile. The way his hair ruffles slightly in the breeze, his cheeks flushed against the cold, wrapped in layers upon layers because he may fight all he wants, but _he needs to stay warm_ , and he’s got a gentle smile on his lips and then Aziraphale is kissing him softly.

He just wants to feel that smile, wants to _taste it._ Their lips are cold against each other, and Crowley is surprised by his sudden action, but he grips Aziaphale’s shoulders lightly, and they stay like that, underneath the stars and Her as their witness.

Aziraphale pulls away and Crowley laughs, his breath coming out in a slight puff.

“It’s not midnight yet, is it?”

“Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me,” Aziraphale says before he can talk himself out of it. He needs to learn to say the things he thinks, rather than hold them back. Rather than assume Crowley knows these things. Between the two of them, Crowley clearly communicates better.

“Better than the time Shakespeare gave you all his unfinished plays?”

“Much better.”

Crowley chuckles. Aziraphale feels the way his chest shakes underneath his hand.

“High praise, angel.”

The demon reaches up and for a moment, Aziraphale thinks he’s going to pull him into another kiss, but instead he takes off his glasses. Those yellow eyes meet his, directly.

“Kiss me, please?”

Aziraphale does.

They are not very good at it. It’s clumsy, and mostly the two of them trying to slide their lips over each other while also smiling far too much, but it’s absolutely perfect. There’s something great about just _feeling this close to each other_ , that Aziraphale could do this for the next six millennia.

_You’re the best friend  
_ _That I ever had  
_ _I’ve been with you such a long time_


	39. Chapter 39

Aziraphale is correcting one of his many versions of the Bible when it hits him.

He’s in love with the angel.

It’s not a big revelation. It’s not like being hit by a wall of bricks. It’s a passing thought as Aziraphale curls the corner of Job, and clicks his tongue at the interpretation, and the thought just settles inside of his mind and he nods at it as it drifts by.

And it’s not the first time he’s had this thought, and it probably won’t be the last, but it’s such a mundane moment, he’s quite sure it’s supposed to be a bigger deal than this, but it’s not. And the oddest things make him remember this fact, because it is a fact. It’s who he is. In love with the angel. There is no separating himself from his feelings, or putting such emotions into a box because nothing could contain it. It’s made itself a part of him, underneath his skin, nestled in there and made a home.

It’s normal. It’s a word for what he feels for the angel, what he’s felt towards him for a long time but has never been able to articulate. He finds the word love lacking as well, but it’s _human_ , and _beautiful_ , even if it is inadequate so he uses it anyway.

When Crowley thinks of all the importance humans put on love, he finds it remarkable how little understanding they have a concept they desire so much. Their understanding of it is so basic, even though they’ve had quite a long time to figure it out.

It’s kind of insulting that the best word humans could come up with was love.

It seems too small of a word to describe the way he feels when he finds himself humming one of Aziraphale’s hymns. It’s not enough to encapsulate the feeling he gets when he wakes up and knows he’ll be greeted by the angel in the kitchen. It’s not describable by words that he gets joy in knowing exactly how to make Aziraphale’s cocoa just the way he likes.

Humans seem to think you need the person you love to be with you to be overwhelmed by it. You need to see them, or you need to miss them. You need to ache for them, _yearn_. He feels that, of course he does, but there are smaller ways. Subtler ways.

Seeing something and knowing it would be perfect for him.

Enjoying simple tasks just because they’re done together.

Knowing that Aziraphale would put down his book to talk to him, if he asked. He doesn’t need it to happen, but he knows it would, if he ever asked and that fills him with an indescribable emotion that swells inside of him and makes him feel so _full_ with something not meant to be expressed by flimsy language.

Being able to sit in total silence with each other, and then begin a conversation in the middle without a beginning because they’re just like that, and it’s easy when you know someone like the back of your hand.

It’s not terrifying, facing the ordeal of being Known, not if it’s by the right person.

The void doesn’t seem as endless with company. And even if it gets too much, it’s nice to know someone else will continue to scream into its depths when his voice runs out.

That Aziraphale will get angry for him when one of his records get scratched. They both know he can miracle it anew, and he will, but it’s the principle of the matter and the angel understands that.

That they don’t need words to communicate with each other, can have entire conversations without even looking at each other (Aziraphale is sitting with a book in his lap. Crowley sets cocoa down near him. Aziraphale shifts in his position. Crowley is now welcome to sit next to him).

It’s that Aziraphale fusses over him without making him feel weak. That he’s never protested against Crowley’s many changes over the years, and calls him by female pronouns on the days he wants to without him having to say a thing. Sometimes Crowley wears lipstick and wants to be a he and Aziraphale knows that without the slightest indication from him.

Aziraphale makes room for him in his life, sets a space aside specifically reserved for him.

The most amazing thing about Aziraphale is that he finds Crowley to be _enough_.

He has never been what others wanted. Always falling short to Her expectations. Not a good enough angel, an even worse demon. A shoddy rebel, if he could even be called that. And yet Aziraphale accepts him, exactly as he is. He gets mad, he yells at him, but in the end he is never disappointed in him. He has never disappointed Aziraphale, and that means more than he can convey.

“Ow.”

Crowley looks up to see Aziraphale sucking on his thumb slightly.

“Papercut?”

The angel nods. “Would you mind getting me a band-aid?”

Crowley grins. “As you wish.”


	40. Chapter 40

“Hey, could you come over here? I want to try something.”

Aziraphale puts his book down and makes his way over to Crowley. He tilts his head ever so slightly, but the demon doesn’t give a single thing away as he quirks an eyebrow, waiting for him to sit in front of him.

Aziraphale crosses his legs and waits.

“Don’t move.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Not if you trust me.”

“I do.”

Crowley’s breath hitches ever so slightly and his movements pause.

“What are you going to do?”

“Kiss you. If that’s okay?”

“But we’ve kissed before.”

“This is different.”

“How?”

“If you just let me do it, you’ll see!” There’s that impatient but fond tone again. “So, can I kiss you?”

“You don’t have to ask every time, you know.”

“Better to be safe than sorry.” Crowley looks him straight in the eyes, his glasses gone. He’s been wearing them less and less and it sends a thrill every time he sees those yellow irises. They’re a sign of Crowley’s trust if nothing else and they’re beautiful. “So, can I?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. Don’t move.”

“Anything else?”

“Close your eyes.”

Aziraphale does as told.

He feels the way the air displaces itself around him as Crowley repositions himself. Hears him shift from his sitting position, and then he feels a hand on his neck, cool to the touch. He can feel the demon’s breath on his face, and he wants to open his eyes, but he stops himself. The angel stays as rigid as he can manage.

“Are you going to kiss me?”

“If you’ll just be patient.” It’s a teasing tone, so close it tickles his nose.

“Hey, don’t laugh. Or smile. It’ll ruin it.”

“How can I ruin it?”

“You just will.”

Aziraphale chuckles, biting his lip.

“Stop that.”

“Give me a moment to compose myself, my boy?”

After a few seconds, Crowley speaks again.

“Are you ready?”

“Have been for a while.”

“Oh, shuddup.”

And then he’s kissing Aziraphale.

He doesn’t understand how it’s different from the few other kisses they’ve shared, but he enjoys it all the same. He leans forward into it, and reaches out to touch Crowley, but finds there’s nothing, and instead he holds his cheek instead of pressing against his chest.

When they pull away, Crowley stops him, holding him in place by his hand. He takes Aziraphale’s lower lip between his teeth, and pulls ever so slightly.

The angel shudders.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

“May I open my eyes?”

“You may.”

Crowley is on his knees, leaning over to Aziraphale, one hand on the oriental carpet. His eyes are intense, and beautiful and lovely and Aziraphale smiles. Crowley smiles back at him.

“We’re getting better at this, aren’t we?”

“I’d say so.”

Aziraphale leans in and kisses Crowley, pulling him ever so slightly closer when he grabs a fist full of his shirt. It’s made of worn, old material, a band t-shirt, and it feels wonderful under his fingers. Physical proof that Crowley is here, with him, and so _close_. He can taste the demon’s smile against his own.

“Stop smiling,” Crowley growls slightly, “it’s making the angle weird.”

Aziraphale doesn’t stop, and neither does Crowley.

Instead, the demon bites at his mouth gently and then his tongue enters Aziraphale’s mouth and the angel’s grip tightens. Crowley is clumsy, unprofessional, inexperienced as he tries to explore his partner’s mouth. He breathes through his nose a little too harshly, and his nails are digging into Aziraphale’s shoulder just a bit too much.

When they pull away, Crowley licks his lips ever so slightly.

“Good?”

“Tolerable.”

Crowley barks out in laughter. “Well then, suppose we’ll have to try again.”


	41. Chapter 41

Crowley is lying on his back with Artemis curled on his chest. The two of them enjoy basking in the sunlight together. There’s something comforting about the atmosphere the sunlit room provides.

Aziraphale enters with a new book under his arm. The demon imagines his room contains nothing but stacks of books, and perhaps has TARDIS like qualities which allow him to stock more reading material than can physically fit within the cottage.

Crowley’s about to greet Aziraphale, when the angel beats him to it by pressing his lips against his.

The angle is a bit weird, but Crowley doesn’t mind. Artemis shifts on his chest, which Crowley notes absentmindedly as Aziraphale kisses him gently.

A pleased hum escapes his mouth, possibly in time with Artemis’ purrs.

Suddenly, Aziraphale’s tongue darts out of his mouth.

Before Crowley can even process it, Aziraphale has pulled away.

“Sorry. I er, I don’t know what that was.” The angel is red as a beet, flushed all the way to his neckline. It’s a beautiful sight.

“Hey, no problem. Wanna try again?”

Aziraphale nods.

He leans over, blocking out the sun much to Artemis’ disappointment, and this time Crowley lets his tongue dart out.

He can taste Aziraphale. Or at least, his lips. He tastes of tea, mostly. Crowley suspects that’s what’s in his mug.

His tongue slips back into his own mouth.

The two of them take turns alternating, long enough that Artemis realizes the angel has no immediate plans to stop blocking the sun, and walks off to find a better sunbathing spot.

When Aziraphale’s tongue reaches out this time, Crowley’s lips open of their own accord.

The two of them freeze. Eyes snap open. They don’t separate, just stare into each other’s eyes, uncertain.

Aziraphale is about to pull away when Crowley gently guides him with his hand on his cheek and lets his tongue into Aziraphale’s slightly opened mouth.

It’s short, and when they pull apart, he’s panting though he hasn’t done much of anything.

“Was that alright?” he asks.

“It was … different.”

Crowley suddenly wishes Artemis was near. Running his fingers through soft fur calms his down. “Good different or bad different?”

“Just … different.”

Crowley nods, accepting the vagueness for what it is. “Right, so …”

“Maybe …” Aziraphale’s ears resemble red traffic lights. “Maybe you could do it again?”

“Do you want me to? Cause I don’t have to. I mean, it was just an impulsive thing, I don’t know what I’m doing—”

“And you think I do?” Aziraphale shakes his head softly, perhaps at the whole ridiculousness of the thing. “Neither of us knows a thing about physical intimacy. It’s why everything seems scary. I want to explore everything with you, though, so if you want to, I would very much like you to put your tongue in my mouth again.”

This time, Crowley turns red. “Who’s being crude now?”

“I just meant …”

“No, I was teasing. I would be delighted if you put your tongue into my mouth.”

It is fascinating, seeing just how red Aziraphale can turn in such a short amount of time.

Crowley shifts his position, changing from being on his back to sitting upright. “Hey. No pressure, remember? Just us.”

“Just us,” Aziraphale repeats sort of breathlessly and it triggers something in Crowley’s stomach that makes it swoop downwards. “I like that.”

“I like you,” Crowley says softly.

“So do I.”

“Despite your better judgement,” Crowley teases.

Aziraphale frowns. “No, with my good judgement.” Aziraphale takes Crowley’s fingers in his own. It’s the most simple, basic form of touch, in some ways. This is what babies do, the first thing they learn to grab onto tends to be their guardian’s fingers. It’s a method to stop idiots from running into the streets. It’s, in many ways, the most innocent touch Crowley has ever seen between two people.

His cheeks burn.

“You trust my judgement, no?”

“I trust you.”

“Despite _your_ better judgement.”

Crowley can’t argue that. Demons don’t trust. Not each other, and certainly not angels. The idea of loyalty, the concept of respect or fealty of any kind is completely foreign. Chivalry is not dead in Hell. It never existed.

He nods, forehead pressed against Aziraphale. He can feel the warmth of the other’s body. Physical forms really are trivial, in so many ways, but he’s rather attached to Aziraphale’s. Not to say he wouldn’t respect, or love him any less in another body. He _did_ recognize his soul the moment it was in Madame Tracy, after all. But he would need some time to mourn the loss of this corporeal form.

Perhaps humans know a thing or two, emphasizing touch as much as they do.

“So trust me on this. I trust you. I respect you. I adore you. I wouldn’t waste my time on something worthless, would I? Trust my opinion of you.”

Crowley gulps. “It’s … hard.”

“I know it is.” Aziraphale kisses his nose lightly. “But I’m glad you’re trying. It’s just us. You don’t need to be tough.”

He can count the angel’s eyelashes from this distance. So he does.

“I’m working n it.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Crowley loves his angel. He’s glad She’s watching. Watching him be accepted, as he never was under Her gaze. He’s glad She knows Her opinion means shit to him.

Only Aziraphale may judge him, and he’s verdict is that Crowley is perfect as he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Crowley got weird on me at the end.


	42. Chapter 42

Humans like it when their partners dress up for them. Azirapahle doesn’t understand this importance placed on appearance. That’s not to say he doesn’t care for his appearance, but he doesn’t see the point in fussing over it.

Not like Crowley does.

It may, possibly, kill the demon to appear less than perfect.

Aziraphale does not comprehend why people think they must look a certain way to receive approval. Acceptance comes in more forms than a compliment about physical appearance.

He tries his best to show the demon that he is accepted through actions, but maybe it isn’t enough.

Aziraphale would feel honoured if he ever saw Crowley _dress down_. Finally shed every last one of his armour, allowing himself to look as natural as he possibly can. Not worried about what Aziraphale may think of him, or concerned with his appearance.

Just to be unapologetically himself, in all ways.

It’s a nice dream, but he doubts it’ll happen any time soon. Crowley has always cared more about his appearance than others, and it’s not out of some sort of vanity. He’s always wanted to be _different_ from other demons. He prides himself on his appearance, so prim and proper in comparison to Hastur and Ligur, who definitely haven’t looked in a mirror in eons.

Aziraphale understands that, in a way. That need to be different amongst others you don’t quite fit in with.

But he doesn’t feel he’s asking much. Just for Crowley to walk into the kitchen one day with less than perfect hair. Just once. It means more than tuxedos and nicely pressed skirts. More than fancily applied makeup and shining suede shoes.

One day it’ll happen.

Not yet, Aziraphale knows, but some day.


	43. Chapter 43

Aziraphale is sitting on his bed.

_What. The. Fuck?_

“Erm …”

The angel looks as flustered as Crowley feels. “I just thought we could … well, I could try one of your pass times. And I don’t have a bed, so …”

“You could Miracle one.”

Why did he say that?

“Unless you would rather … Um, that is, I do have a bed. A _big_ bed.”

The two of them stare at the queen sized mattress.

“Very big,” Aziraphale echoes.

“Not as big as a whale’s brain, but close.”

Crowley gestures to the bed and wonders if he’ll have to audibly say that he wants to share his space with Aziraphale. The unspoken about lines between them don’t exist the way they used to, but there is a caution that’s palpable between the two beings.

“Erm …” Crowley clears his throat and throws his glasses onto the bedside table. “If you want to get ready, go ahead.”

“What side do you prefer?”

 _Side?_ Crowley doesn’t have a side when he sleeps. He takes up all the space he wants, without a second thought. He’s never had to think about someone else when he’s sleeping, because who the fuck would invade his space when he’s _sleeping_? But the reality of wanting to share a bed with the angel is that they _will_ touch, and they _will_ have to share that space.

“Left,” he says because it is funny that people associate the left to the devil.

He’s going to about his normal night routine, when it clicks.

_Aziraphale is going to be in my bed._

The demon’s usual sleep attire of baggy sweatpants and a tank top will _not_ do. Those are clothes you wear when you don’t want to impress. As if he can show Aziraphale his boney arms in all their glory. When it comes to corporeal bodies, Aziraphale really got the better draw. Crowley finds his angles are too sharp, his features too menacing. Perhaps that’s the cost of being demonic.

All the same, he takes care of his hair in a way he doesn’t bother with the rest of his body. His hair is his to shape and sculpt however he wishes, and so what if he prefers it to be non-threatening? Keeping it puffy, fluffy, and appealing? That’s his choice. He can’t help the hard exterior Hell has given him, but his locks are his own to deal with.

So he covers up in a way he doesn’t normally and enters his bedroom once more to see Aziraphale lying beneath the covers with a book on his lap, spectacles on his nose.

Occasionally, Crowley develops an urge to physically let out a sound to convey the sheer happiness inside his chest. He squishes it down, and lays in the bed as well.

“Are you okay to sleep now?” Crowley asks. “Like, you don’t wanna stay up a bit later?”

“No, this is fine,” says the angel.

Crowley nods, even though he knows Aziraphale can’t see the action from the angle he’s at.

“Right then.”

They’re plunged into darkness with a snap of Crowley’s fingers.

Each inhale and exhale sounds like thunder. They don’t even need to breathe, technically.

A few minutes later—

“Er, Crowley?”

“Yes, angel?’

“How exactly does one sleep?”

Crowley’s never really thought about it. It’s not as though when he first started sleeping, he was _actively trying to_. It just sort of … happened. His normal routine for sleep is impossible to do with the angel so close, given that he often tosses and turns, eventually balling himself up and wrapping his dark silk sheets around himself. He can’t hog the blankets, and every time he so much as twitches his fingers, he senses Aziraphale will know and judge him for it.

“You just … do. Er. You … well, humans say to relax. And to let yourself stop thinking. You just kinda …” He frowns. “You know that warm feeling when you get drunk? And your eyes feel sort of heavy and your whole body just … _slacks_?”

“Hmm?”

“You just … let it happen. Let it fill your whole body.”

“Ah.”

Crowley clears his throat. It sounds like a gong.

“Does that … er, help?”

“Yes, dear.”

Crowley’s pretty sure the angel is lying, but he appreciates his effort to pretend he was useful.

Eventually though, Aziraphale does sink into the sheets and begin to sleep.

The demon, on the other hand, stares at his ceiling.

He wishes he weren’t so modern as to not have tiles. At least then he’d have something to stare at. Instead he counts in Greek, then in French, then in German. He counts stars he remembers creating and people he’s actively interacted with. He counts things that make him happy and the number of crepes Aziraphale has consumed since Paris.

He gives up after counting the number of sunglasses he’s owned.

The sunlight rises and so does Aziraphale, who yawns and gets out of the bed, revealing his tartan socks.

“That was nice. I think I understand why you do it so often, my boy.”

“Ah, glad you liked it.”

“May I join you every now and then?”

“Course.”

Crowley makes a mental note to teach himself how to sleep again, especially if he’ll be sharing his bed with the angel.


	44. Chapter 44

A month after Aziraphale starts sleeping, he’s woken up by the mattress shifting beneath him.

The angel doesn’t sleep every night, perhaps once or twice a week, but he’s grown accustomed to Crowley’s bedside manner enough to know this is odd. The demon will toss a little bit, wiggle to try and get comfortable for a few minutes before eventually settling down and becoming absolutely rigid until he wakes. He keeps to his side of the bed, as though there were a physical barrier between the two of them. Aziraphale doesn’t let himself think too much about how much he wants to breach it, just to see what it’d be like to wake up facing Crowley and seeing his smile the moment he opens his eyes.

Crowley is _moving_.

Aziraphale shifts in the bed and allows a small light to hover over the bed. The demon has kicked off the sheets, his body curled into a ball as much as he can in his human form. His head is tucked to his knees, his arms are gripping the bedspread, so tight his knuckles are white. He’s _shaking_.

Aziraphale has no idea what the proper procedure is to follow when such a thing happens.

He’s scared to touch him. He looks … _fragile_. Never would anyone use such a word to describe the Original Tempter, and neither would Aziraphale He’s _suffering_ , sweat on his brow and teeth chattering slightly.

Aziraphale slides himself closer to the demon than he’s ever allowed himself in the bed, leaning his back against the wall the bed is pressed against. There’s no headboard, and he’s got questions about it. Last time he checked, humans liked headboards. But that can wait.

“Crowley?” he whispers.

No response.

“Crowley, I’m going to touch you now, okay?”

With a nervous hand, Aziraphale reaches out. He lets his fingers brush the demon’s scalp tentatively. When he doesn’t react, he applies more pressure, allows himself to gently caress through the fiery locks.

“You’re okay, Crowley. I don’t know if you can hear me, but you’re safe. No one can hurt you.” He hums, trying to remember one of those songs his demon loves so much.

“ _I don't care who you are_

_Where you're from_

_What you did_

_As long as you love me_

_Who you are_

_Where you're from_

_Don't care what you did_

_As long as you love me”_

He keeps humming, forgetting the rest of the lines and just letting himself stroke the demon’s hair. It’s a guilty desire of his, wanting to reach out and touch his hair. He knows how much of a fuss Crowley makes over it, perfectly styled to the era. If he’s being honest, it was probably around Shakespeare’s time that he first wanted to run his fingers through the flame coloured locks. An urge he sat on for a long time.

Gradually, Crowley stops shaking. His grip on the sheets loosens, and even more importantly, he uncurls. He twists in his position, and grabs onto Aziraphale’s shirt. Immediately realizing the demon is waking up, Aziraphale moves his hands away.

“Why’d you stop?”

The angel gulps. “Hello, dear.”

“Why’d you stop?” Crowley repeats, looking at him through half-closed eyes. He’s tired, and his voice is doing that thing it does when he’s just woken up. That thing that makes Aziraphale feels warm and happy. “You can touch my hair, if you want.”

“I was just …” Aziraphale frowns. “You had a nightmare.”

Crowley scoffs. “Demons don’t get nightmares.”

“Demons don’t sleep either,” the angel points out. “You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to, but … I’m here. If you want to. Talk, that is.”

“All we ever do is talk.” Crowley repositions himself on the bed, farther from Aziraphale than the angel would like but he doesn’t comment on it. “Don’t wanna talk anymore. Just wanna … not think. Turn off. Sleep.”

Aziraphale nods. “Would you like me to read to you?”

Crowley hisses his approval.

Clearly, he doesn’t want to address the issue. Aziraphale won’t push, but as he begins to read in the soft holy light, he silently hopes Crowley will tell him sometime soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally had a Queen song, as one does, but then I saw Dirk Gently, and decided fuck it. Backstreet Bitches! (I really hope that's what fans of the Backstreet Boys are called).  
> Also, happy Star Wars day!


	45. Chapter 45

“Crowley what do you think about making an Effort?”

Crowley’s coughing. He may be dying. Six thousand years on this earth, and he’ll be done in by some Scotch that isn’t even all that good—

Aziraphale thumps at his back with enough force to dislodge anything were it to be stuck in his throat. There is nothing of the sort, and instead Crowley merely barrels over in his seat and steadies his hands on his thighs.

“I take this as a negative reaction, then?”

The demon holds up a hand and takes a few minutes gathering himself before he looks up at his angel. “I’m sorry, I thought you just said you wanted to make an Effort.”

“No,” Aziraphale says, playing with his fingers the way he does when he’s getting fidgety and nervous, which is hardly fair given that Crowley is _losing his shit right now_ , but he keeps it down. He has to be the cool one out of the two of them when Aziraphale loses his head. “I just wanted your thoughts on making one. If you wanted to. Maybe.”

“Do _you_ want to make an Effort?”

Aziraphale plays with the hem of his waistcoat. “I’m not necessarily _opposed_ — well, the thing is, my boy, we’re … we’ve been together for six thousand years. And though this relationship is new, at least, this dimension of it, I feel … I don’t know, perhaps we are lacking?”

Crowley’s features harden. “Aziraphale, on what basis are we lacking anything?”

“I wasn’t trying to imply you were improper, or inattentive, —”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Aziraphale lets out a huff, his head bowing. “I just thought it odd that we aren’t … you know.”

“Shagging?”

The angel’s nose wrinkles. “There’s no need to be crude.”

“I could’ve been cruder.”

Aziraphale takes a seat and miracles a bottle of wine. “I think I’m too sober for this conversation.”

Crowley miracles the bottle into his own possession. “This isn’t a conversation one has when inebriated. This is a big deal, Aziraphale. Do you want to shag? Or do you feel we should shag, because all the humans are doing it?”

“I …” Aziraphale gives up on playing with his outfit and merely throws his hands in the air. “I don’t know, Crowley. I don’t find us to be missing anything, in our relationship, and I know that non-sexual relationships are completely fulfilling in their own right. I understand that coitus is not necessary to make things work in a romantic relationship, and while I know that my physical form is not … well, it’s not what you’re attracted to, as you've said before, I’ve … wondered, a few things …”

Crowley moves closer to Aziraphale and takes his trembling hands in his. “Aziraphale, talk to me. Do you want us to have sex?”

“Must you be so crude about it?”

“Yes, yes I do. I’m a _demon_. Driven by carnal desires, running on instinct, provided you’ve got the bits for it. Sex is done because of desperation, and an internal _need_ to _claim_ , to _mate_ , to _fuck_. That’s what sex is to demons.”

“And to you?”

Crowley looks down at their intertwined hands. “Sex to me …” He makes sure his touch is gentle, admires each ridge of the angel’s hand, takes in his skin and every part of his body. “Well, it’s not anything. It doesn’t _mean_ anything to me. I’ve never had it. Never wanted it. Demons are supposed to feel lust, and desire, and … well, I suppose you could say _hunger_ for the pleasures of the flesh. I don’t want that. Not like that.

“I wouldn’t do it like that. Not with you.” Crowley bites his lip. “You still haven’t answered the question, angel. If you want to make an Effort because you want to, or because society wants you to.”

Aziraphale stares at their hands. “I … I am curious.”

“Okay.” Crowley brings their joined fingers closer to him, and hopes the angel can’t see how much he’s trembling. He kisses the angel’s knuckles, then lets their hands rest on the table between them. “If you want to try to make an Effort, all you need to do is tell me. We’ll do it together. If you want.”

“But what about what you want?”

Crowley chuckles softly. “I’ve had my own curiosities. I’m not _opposed_ to making an Effort. Never had a good enough reason to make one, though.” His eyes flicker up to the angel’s.

Aziraphale’s blushes goes down to his neck, flushed and red and _beautiful_.

“You let me know, okay? This is the same as kissing. Just because we’ve spoken about it now, doesn’t mean we have to make an Effort right now.”

“Our side,” says Aziraphale and he sounds completely breathless.

“Our side,” Crowley agrees.


	46. Chapter 46

Crowley is avoiding him.

It’s been a week since the talk about perhaps making an Effort, and the demon has not gone near him since. He’s been avoiding Aziraphale’s touch, even the most casual of ones. The angel would be lying if he said it doesn’t sting.

He _sounded_ interested in the idea of an Effort, but perhaps Aziraphale’s physical body is too off-putting. Perhaps they were sweet lies told to him by the Tempter.

But no, Crowley isn’t like that. Crowley is not a demon, he’s _Crowley_ , and Crowley would never do such a thing to Aziraphale.

He’s been more irritable lately as well. He’s started wearing his glasses even more, and he even ducked out of BBQ night last Wednesday. Perhaps the problem is greater than Aziraphale realizes.

“Crowley?” He taps gently against the demon’s bedroom door. “Are you alright in there?”

“Hngk.”

“I can’t understand you if you don’t speak to me, dear.”

“… Fine, angel.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “How dumb do you think I am?”

“Not at all. You’re brilliant, of course.” There’s a stumbling sound, and then a sudden crashing.

“Are you alright? And don’t you dare think about fibbing!”

“I’m … in a bit of a rough spot, s’all.” His voice is getting closer, and then he can hear Crowley breathing through the door. He can picture him now, leaning against his closed door. “Aziraphale, er, it’s just … I don’t … this is normal, I promise it. Swear it. On whoever you want.” His breaths are coming out strange. “But it’s better if you don’t … touch me, for the next bit.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not like that!” There’s something panicked about his tone, frantic. “I’d love to touch you. I’d be touching you right now, if I could. In any way. Hold your hand, lean against your shoulder, hand you something. I love your skin, did I ever tell you?” he sounds delirious, ever so slightly. “S’just … I _am_ a serpent.”

_What’s that supposed to mean?_

“I don’t understand—”

“It’s starting soon, is all. No big deal. Never done it ‘round you before. Kinda funny it’s never happened, considering all things,” Crowley hisses out. “But erm … I’m not going to be good company for the next two weeks. Sorry.”

“Crowley … are you shedding?”

“Not yet. Soon. Only a matter of days, now. I’m … sensitive, before the shed,” the demon confesses. “I can’t … too much sensory exposure is bad. Not just overwhelming, but _bad_. Damaging.” He huffs, and there’s a slight thud, as if he’s hit something. “I’ll be fine. Happens every year.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

There’s a sharp inhale.

“You want to?”

“S’why I offered.”

Crowley is silent.

“Are you still there?”

“Yeah. I mean, yes. I am.” Crowley is quiet again. “I just … I didn’t think you’d want to. It’s not pretty. I’m an awfully large snake, you know. The skin’s … well, it’s disgusting. And the smell isn’t great either. And I’m a right prick before and after, too.”

“Aren’t you normally?”

Crowley laughs, then pauses. “You sure you want to?”

“Absolutely.”

The door opens slowly. It can’t be good for his posture to lean that way. “This is going to get ugly. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. S’not my fault if you can’t look me in the eyes anymore.”

Aziraphale wants to reach out and take Crowley’s face in his hands and tell him to stop worrying, but he sees the way Crowley is wincing just holding the doorframe and refrains.

“Did you think lesser of me when you found me in the Bastille?”

“No, but—”

“What about when I foolishly walked into that church, during World War II?”

“No, however—”

“And that time in Rome? When you saw me in the middle of an orgy I had accidentally stumbled upon, and had a prostitute in my lap who was very confused why my _parts_ , which I did not have, were not responding to her, and you laughed at my embarrassment? Did you think less of me then?”

“I would never, but Aziraphale, you’re not _listening_. That is not the same, it’s _different_ —”

“How?”

“Those were circumstances out of your control which landed you in a spot of trouble. This is … this is just me.”

And then Aziraphale gets it.

Crowley is vulnerable, and for all his bravado, it is a mask he wears like his glasses. In a time of vulnerability and pain, Crowley is not thinking of himself, but of Aziraphale. With ever gentle hands, careful not to touch the demon, the angel lifts the glasses off the man’s face.

Their eyes meet and Aziraphale _knows_.

“This is just you,” he agrees. “And you are absolutely _wonderful_. You have always been by my side when I required aid. Allow me to do the same for you.”

_I cannot say it quite yet, but allow me to show you._

Crowley sags, and lets out a dramatic sigh. “Alright.”

_Thank you, my love._


	47. Chapter 47

Crowley really hates shedding.

It’s a viscerally unpleasant experience, from start to end. It’s a yearly reminder of who he is, _what_ he is. That for all he’s changed, he is still paying for that which he did all those millennia ago. A few questions at the wrong time, and now he pays for all eternity. He wonders if She realizes she has an understaffing problem Up There.

It’s better with Aziraphale by his side.

The angel follows his instructions dutifully and avoids touching him as he requested. He makes Crowley’s bedroom as comfortable as possible, creates a bath for him to soak in, Miracled to fit his immense size. He keeps him hydrated through the whole thing and reads in the demon’s bedroom rather than in the sunlit room that’s too harsh for his skin. He reads _aloud_ , and fills the silence that’s always irritated Crowley when he sheds.

When he changes back, Aziraphale does not touch him. He hands him things delicately, and explains to the others why he cannot attend the BBQ. He continues to wait on Crowley as though he were incapable of communication, and does not push. He does not ask how it was, does not say anything to bring attention to the fact that Crowley is undeniably a _demon_ , as much as he tries to separate himself from those Below.

A week after Crowley returns to his human form, he pulls Aziraphale into a tight hug.

The angel is slow to respond. Even when he does, he grips Crowley’s clothes rather than his skin, smells his skin rather than buries his head into his neck, and the demon is grateful. He’s more sensitive than he should be, but he can’t stand being apart from the angel’s touch for any longer.

He thinks he understands that human craving for skin on skin now.

They stay like that for who knows how long, silent as Crowley’s skin heats and settles.

“Thank you.” He hopes his voice does not quiver.

Aziraphale looks at him puzzled, as though he does not understand. He does not think thanks are necessary. He does not understand how much of a help he has been. That this is the time Crowley hates the most, that this is when he is at his lowest, weakest, and most self-loathing. He does not believe there was an option to do anything other _than_ help, and Crowley’s fists bunch in the comforting fabric of the angel’s clothes and he wants to say it.

Wants to tell him.

Instead he bites his lip and pushes it down.

_Too soon._


	48. Chapter 48

“Why are you wearing that?”

“Wearing what?”

“That,” says Crowley, gesturing to the hat on the angel’s head.

“I’ve been told this is the proper attire for gardening.”

The demon laughs. It’s not mean-spirited. “Who’d you hear that from?”

Aziraphale sticks out his chin. “I don’t feel like sharing that information with you right now.”

“Alright, I’ll let it go.” Crowley chuckles. “C’mon, we’ve got some plants to … plant. Fucking language _sucks balls_.”

Aziraphale hides a smile behind a gloved hand and joins Crowley in the dirt.

The garden the demon has managed to create is rather impressive given how long he’s had it. If there were fairs for these sorts of things, he has no doubt the man would win every prize. He cares to the garden with an iron fist, and it shows. Aziraphale doesn’t miss the way the stalks shiver whenever Crowley approaches them.

“What are we planting?”

“Apple tree,” Crowley says with a sly grin.

Aziraphale hits him gently in the shoulder. The demon lets the force sway him slightly, then shoves back lightly. “That’s getting old.”

“You’re getting old.”

“We’re the same age, dear.”

“Not true,” Crowley says as he begins to dig an appropriate hole for the seeds. “You’re older. If we want to consider the Fall a rebirth, of a sort. You’re a cradle robber, that’s what you are.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Honestly, you’re ridiculous.”

“S’not my fault you’re into the young ones.” Crowley hands the seed packet over to Aziraphale. “Open those for me, will you?”

There’s something relaxing about gardening with Crowley.

After planting the apple tree, he and Aziraphale begin to get rid of the few weeds that have persisted in the beds. Sharing such an activity, one that Crowley likes, fills him with a type of joy he cannot explain. It’s simple, and fulfilling in a strange way that he adores.

Once they’ve finished, they end the day with a bottle of champagne.

“Why do you garden, dear?”

Crowley sits up slightly straighter on the couch. “Dunno. I didn’t mean to start a garden. I got a plant some time around … hmm, think it was the 17th century? Got a few more afterwards. Before I knew it, I had a dozen or so plants.” He shrugs. “I enjoy it. It’s … relaxing.”

“Does it remind you of the Garden?”

“Never thought of it like that.” Crowley shifts in his position. “A bit. Not really, though. It’s _mine_. That other Garden, that was Hers. I mean, I _like_ that Garden. For obvious reasons,” here he winks at the angel, “but my garden … it’s special. It’s _my_ creation. When my job is to destroy and erode at things, to erase and obliterate life, it’s nice to know I _can_ let things thrive.”

“You are too, you know.”

“Am what?”

“Bigger. On the inside, I mean.”

The tips of the demon’s ears turn red.

Yes, Crowley certainly is bigger on the inside. And every day, he gets a little bigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't mind me, shoehorning in my fave Eleven Doctor Who episode again ...


	49. Chapter 49

“So … about making an Effort …”

Aziraphale’s hand stutters when petting Artemis. The little kitten rubs against his wrist to prod him along. “Yes?”

“I mean, we were talking about making one, and then my shedding happened. Bad timing, I suppose. But are you still interested? In making an Effort, I mean?”

Aziraphale puts his book aside. “I’m not sure exactly what making an Effort would entail.”

Crowley shifts from his position on the floor. He’s at the foot of Aziraphale’s armchair, lounging comfortably while Pink Floyd fills the room. He stops the needle. “It would entail whatever you want it to.”

“But isn’t it for …”

“Sex?”

Aziraphale gulps and nods.

“Not necessarily.” Crowley sits up straight and pets Artemis’s back while Aziraphale occupies himself with the cat’s head. “Just means sex is a possibility. Not a guarantee.”

“And it wouldn’t … it wouldn’t make me more … susceptible? To you, I mean?”

Crowley frowns. “Angel, what do you think my job is?”

Aziraphale blinks, his cheeks reddening. “Well, you’re … _you_. You’re a demon. You Tempt, and Trick, and er, Seduce.”

_Ah, language, thou haft failed me once more._

Crowley honestly should stop being surprised.

“I think you’ve been victim to a 6000 year misunderstanding. No, don’t feel bad, everyone thinks the same thing. But I don’t _make_ people do things. I have one power really, only one. I Suggest. When I say I didn’t Tempt Eve, I meant it. I didn’t even tempt her.

“I gave her a choice. Curiosity did the rest. That’s the _real_ sin, it’s why humans give into their vices all the time. Curiosity. That’s not a demonic creation, or an angelic one. It’s just a thing that exists, and it’s what makes up the majority of humans.

“Making an Effort wouldn’t make you any easier to control or seduce, or whatever. I can only do what I’ve always done: suggest. And you can take me up on my suggestions, or deny them. I have never, and would never, Tempt you. Goes against my morals, whichever few still exist.” Crowley gazes up at the angel. “Is that why you’re hesitant to make an Effort? Because you’re scared I’ll control you?”

“No, I trust you more than that,” Aziraphale says quickly. To anyone else’s ears, it would sound like a feeble denial. To Crowley, he understands it as the rushed, worried reassurance it is meant to be. “I just mean … well, I care for you greatly, my boy, but I do not wish to Fall, either.”

“What was it you said? Love is hardly a sin?”

The two of them freeze.

“Not that you’re in love with me,” Crowley says quickly. “And not that you have to, either.” Sometimes he wishes he really could burn himself with Hellfire, if only to escape situations like these.

“Would it be that bad?”

“What?” Crowley replies distantly, still worrying over his stupid word choice. Language is honestly the worst thing ever. Right up there with Selfies and live-action remakes.

“If I was in love with you.”

“Oh.” Crowley’s turning red. He hates it, just a little bit. “No. I mean, it wouldn’t be bad. Not bad at all, I imagine.”

“Good.”

“Yeah, good.” Crowley’s brow furrows. “Why is that good?”

“Because I am.”

“Right. Yes.” Crowley blinks. “Wait.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re in love with me.”

Aziraphale stills in petting Artemis. “If it doesn’t bother you.”

“If it doesn’t bother me,” Crowley echoes. “What kind of bullshit is that? It was a yes or no question.”

“You didn’t phrase it as a question.”

“I meant it as a question. Or a statement for you to deny or confirm.”

“Well, then I confirm it. I guess.”

Crowley’s nose wrinkles. “You _guess_?”

“You’re putting an awful lot of pressure on me right now, dear boy. Perhaps I’m changing my mind.”

“Some love, if you can take it back that easily.”

The room is quiet.

Why isn’t the music playing?

He should fix that.

“Ditto.”

“Hmm?”

“I said, ditto,” Crowley says, face flushed and burning. He snaps his fingers and the needle touches the record once more, except instead of Pink Floyd, Queen comes out.

_You’re my best friend_

_That I ever had_

_I’ve been with you such a long time_

_You’re my sunshine_

_And I want you to know_

_That my feelings are true_

_I really love you_

Crowley coughs into his fist. “Well. Freddie always does say it best.”

“Ditto, my dear. Ditto.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was anticlimactic.


	50. Chapter 50

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few chapters are gonna SEEM like crack. I've never written crack in my life intentionally, so if it comes off crack-y, I didn't mean for it.

The thing about making an Effort is that it sounds like a good idea in _theory_. In practice, Aziraphale has no idea if this is the way he should be reacting.

For one, he can’t stop _staring_.

There’s an added _weight_ to his body that was not there before. In comparison to the weight of his actual body, it’s basically nothing, but it’s the oddest thing. He’s overly aware of it. It’s nothing that everyone else hasn't already _assumed_ he had, but knowing that it’s there when there never was anything makes it infinitely more noticeable to him.

He’s not even sure if he can face Crowley.

They’ve decided to go forward with this whole, making an Effort, but all the same.

He and Crowley stand on opposites side of a wall. All he needs to do is cross the distance. Open Crowley’s bedroom door, or alternatively, have Crowley open the door himself and step into the hallway.

Neither move.

“So …” Crowley’s voice comes from the other side of the wall. “You done it?”

“Yes. And you?”

“Yup.” Crowley whistles. “Pants are tighter, suddenly. Like, a _lot_ tighter. Not comfortable anymore.”

“Oh. You could change.”

“Mostly own pants like these ones, I’m afraid.”

There’s silence.

“And how are you fairing?”

“Erm …” Aziraphale looks down at his trousers. He hasn’t _seen_ his new … _equipment_ , but it’s there. It’s kind of freaking him out, if he’s being honest. And humans are just _born_ with it. He supposes that means they have no need to adjust. “It’s … it’s a thing that’s happened.”

“You regret it?”

“Maybe. Haven’t decided.”

“Fair enough.” Crowley takes a deep inhale. “I’m filled with regret. Not sure how long it’s going to last though. Just uncomfortable right now.”

Aziraphale lets out a breath of relief, knowing they’re both equally uneasy. There’s something comforting about knowing he is not in this alone.

“We could undo it, if we want,” Crowley reminds helpfully.

“We could.”

“Should we?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to?”

“Do _you_ want to?”

“I asked first.”

“I’m … not sure.”

“Right then.”

Silence.

“This is making it worse, isn’t it? Just waiting?”

“Little bit.”

Crowley suddenly claps his hands together and swings the door to his bedroom open. “Alright then! No use being embarrassed on our own, when we can share in that. Same way we shared the dread of Armageddon.”

Aziraphale nods, and gulps. Crowley is dressed as he normally is, and it’s hard _not_ to see that he has indeed made an Effort. His tight pants are ridiculously tighter, and a flush is making its way up Aziraphale’s neck.

“You want to stare at it, don’t you?”

“Stare at what?”

“My crotch.”

“Erm …”

“It’s okay, I’m staring at yours too.” Crowley shifts on his feet. “See, thing is, there’s nothing even remotely sexual about this, is the thing, you know? And this feels really big, but I’m not sure if we’re just overthinking it? Never made an Effort before, you know, so I’m just kinda … feeling out the space.”

“Same, same,” Aziraphale says, trying to tear his eyes away. He understands exactly what Crowley means. “It’s just odd. Because we’ve never had it before, you know? Is this what being a young human is like? When they’re obsessed with their bodies?”

“Well, they keep trying to _touch_ their bodies. I’m kind of scared of mine, if I’m being perfectly honest,” Crowley admits. “I think I’ll just live eternity in these pants, or never take them off the human way again.”

“We’re focusing on this too much.”

“We are.”

“What about we just go about our day as normal? And just ignore it?”

“What, like, pretend it doesn’t exist?”

“Well, fixating on it certainly isn’t doing us any good.”

“That it is not,” Crowley agrees. “I’ve heard there’s these things called podcasts. Would you like to listen to one?”

Aziraphale agrees, and tries desperately to pretend his Effort does not exist. If he just loses himself in Crowley and the humming and the records, maybe he just will forget about it naturally. He’s not sure how he feels about it, aside from awkward and general discomfort, but when the podcast Crowley is playing mentions the weather and a song begins playing, it throws him off so completely he _does_ forget.

They listen to the podcast for quite some time before Crowley clears his throat.

“We’re not … we’re not going to do anything, yeah? With our Eff— fuck it, with our cocks, yeah?” Crowley asks. “Like, not yet, yeah? We’ll just … get used to it, to having them, before we do something _with_ them, yeah? If we even do that. Unless you want to get rid of ‘em.”

“Do _you_ want to get rid of them?”

“I asked first.”

Aziraphale inhales deeply. “I … I don’t feel particularly comfortable with the Effort. But I don’t … I am curious. And I imagine it does get easier the more used to it you are, so I suppose no. I do not want to get rid of my Effort.”

“Calling it an Effort feels _weird_ ,” Crowley says with a sigh. “Can’t you just say dick? Or cock? Or even, penis, if you want to be super medical about it?”

“I don’t see the need for it.”

“Of course you don’t. Whatever.” There’s a sigh of fond exasperation. “One day, I’ll turn your mouth sinfully dirty. I’m off to bed, then. Best if you don’t join me, until we figure out these things, yeah?”

Aziraphale nods, and watches Crowley walk away. He walks strangely, cursing about his pants the entire time. The fondness in Aziraphale’s chest expands even more.

This new stage in their relationship is scary, but he’s awfully glad he’s going through it with the demon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know what podcast it is?


	51. Chapter 51

He’s being bloody ridiculous.

Crowley is no prude. He was there with the first nudists. Adam and Eve cared for little other than their bits, and figuring out what they meant. He understands the mechanics of it all, knows the _theory_ of biology, but he’s never really partaken in it himself. He’s watched it from afar with a sort of disinterested focus. It always felt like something apart from himself.

But _apparently_ , they’re making an effort, and so now it is his business to figure out what to do with … well, _his_ _business_.

First thing he’s got to do is fix the whole pants situation.

It’s the oddest thing. His upper body feels the exact same, but his lower body … well, that’s a whole new existence. And it shouldn’t be, not really. Part of him regrets not ever making an Effort before, just so that this wouldn’t feel so weird. Though, he was completely comfortable with his corporation’s form prior to the Effort, so it doesn’t really matter.

He considers Miracling himself some new pants, ones which aren’t so _tight_ and snug everywhere. He’s in the middle of snapping to put the new fabric on himself, but then decides better of it. He won’t let a measly _dick_ get in the way of expressing himself through fashion as he has for the past six millennia. He’s careful to avoid that part of himself though, there’s some other time for him to explore _that_. He’s not sure how long he’ll end up … figuring things out, anyway, so it’s better if he just ignores it for now.

He tries to swagger into the sunlit room as he normally does, but fears he may be missing something. He sits on the couch for once, and suddenly wonders how he should position himself. His eyes are immediately drawn to the V of Aziraphale’s hips as he sits in his usual armchair, but at least the man has the benefit of a book to shield himself from the demon’s gaze, whereas he’s got fucking _nothing_. Minimalism has never betrayed him quite like this before.

“So.”

“So.”

Crowley crosses his legs, then uncrosses them. Eventually, he sits in a meditative pose, and tries not to rock. “This is awkward.”

“It is, indeed.”

“Any regrets?”

“None that will cause me discorporate.”

“Same here.”

Crowley bites his lip, then decides fuck it. It’s going to be awkward, this entire situation is awkward as fuck, and they may as well stop trying to pretend it isn’t. There’s no use in trying to make it _normal_ or comfortable, this is one of those discomforts you just have to work through, so he forgets his decency and lays out on the couch as he normally does.

“Right then. We’ve made an Effort. Now what?”

“Erm, well, we … make love, no?”

Crowley barks out a laughter that Aziraphale does not seem to find funny.

“There’s no need to be like that—”

“No, no!” Crowley rushes to correct himself. “No, I just meant, er, we don’t have to. Have sex, that is. Certainly not right now. Not ever, if you don’t want. Consent, and all that.” He flips onto his back and stares at the ceiling. “Just because we’ve got dicks now, doesn’t mean we have to _be_ dicks. Doesn’t mean we don’t still have brains. We treat this the way we treat everything. At our own pace, with our own conditions.” He glances over at the angel. “Unless you want to? Have sex right now, that is?”

Aziraphale’s brows furrow. “Well, I …”

“It won’t offend me if you don’t want to. I’ll go first, then. I find it _immensely terrifying_ to think about having sex right now. I could not be less turned on at the moment. And that has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with the fact that I don’t fully understand the purpose of my dick, and am still getting used to it.”

The light haired man lets out a breath of relief. “Oh, that’s so reassuring, my dear. I was worried you’d feel like we _had_ to, just because we _could_ , and I wasn’t sure how to tell you that I wasn’t comfortable.”

“Angel, you can _always_ tell me.” An idea occurs to him. “Tell you what? Let’s implement a new system. Those flashing bright things, that tell the automobiles to go, you know those?”

“Traffic lights?”

“Yes, those things. Humans have discovered this brilliant system, you see, for how to tell each other they’re uncomfortable even when they can’t quite say it, you know? It’s really simple, and it doesn’t only apply to sex, you know.”

Aziraphale shifts in his armchair. “How does it work?”

“Green means you’re good to go, that you enjoy whatever is happening. Yellow is that you’re overwhelmed and need to slow down. Red means you need to get the fuck out of there. Really quite genius, if you think about it. Any of us can use it, and it basically just has to do with our comfort levels in any situation.”

“Hmm, does sound rather simple.” The angel plays with his fingers, which clearly means he has something else he wants to say. “I was doing some research myself, you know. And er, there was mention of a safe word?”

Crowley chokes on his own spit. “ _Aziraphale_.”

“ _Not like that!_ ”

The red on his cheeks says otherwise.

“You naughty, naughty angel.”

“Wiley serpent,” he snaps back without any real bite. “But it functions like your traffic lights system, only it’s just a red. Thought it could be useful.”

“Hmm. Safe word … how about … apple?”

“Apple,” Aziraphale repeats. “Okay.”

“Wonderful!” Crowley jumps up from his spot on the couch and clasps his hands together. “How about a round of Doctor on the telly, eh? I’ve had enough of a talk about what’s in my pants. I’d like _not_ to think for a while.”

“Course.”

The demon puts on the telly, and settles into a position on the couch. It’s one with the stringbean, the one who licks things, and the crazy woman, the one who says “wizard” like that’s a normal exclamation.

Aziraphale stays far away from him, and that won’t do. Just because they’re making an Effort does not mean they have to be as skittish as they were, so he pulls the armchair closer with a little Demonic Miracle and then they’re right next to each other, not touching, but sharing the same space.

There’s something comforting about breathing the same air as the angel.

 _This_ , he thinks, _this right here is perfect._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally ALL Donna episodes are a gift. But I was thinking of the Unicorn and the Wasp in particular for this one. Just ... "One word." "Harvey Wallbanger?" "Harvey Wallbanger's ONE WORD?"  
> "I need something salty."  
> *hands over salt*  
> "TOO SALTY!"


	52. Chapter 52

Crowley has nightmares.

He doesn’t tell Aziraphale about them. Why, the angel can’t fathom. Perhaps because he’s been taught to mask his pain, that it’s un-becoming of him to show weakness and vulnerability, but Aziraphale wishes he would tell him. He’s had his fair share of night terrors, and when those happen, the demon is very comforting. Makes him a cup of cocoa and listens to him as he putters around the kitchen.

They don’t talk about the nightmares though.

Aziraphale isn't sure how he can explain to Crowley how much fear he felt in Hell. He would do it again in a second, anything for his demon, but sometimes he feels confined and the darkness is too dark, the mess is too much and bugs trigger him.

Part of him wonders if that’s why Crowley’s flat in Mayfair is so vacant. Giving him the breathing room Hell does not afford him.

But while Aziraphale’s dreams are bad, Crowley’s are worse. There’s always something haunted in his eyes after he’s had one. He latches onto Aziraphale like he’s drowning, touching him all the time on those days, and while it doesn’t bother him, the unease of his dearest friend worries him.

“Crowley,” he says one day when the demon is sorting through his dresses. “Can we talk?”

“We’re talking right now, angel.” Crowley wrinkles his nose at a floral patterned skirt and tosses it aside. “You know, men should wear skirts more. Makes the whole dick a lot easier to hide, in some cases. Besides, feels good on the legs.”

“Be serious, my dear.”

“I am serious. Fashion makes no sense to me, and the practicality of long, flow-y things when you don’t want people staring directly at what’s between your legs is just common sense.”

“Crowley.”

The demon stops and turns to him. “You were saying something, angel?”

“I wanted to talk to you about your … night terrors.”

Crowley’s nose wrinkles. “I don’t like that. Terrible name for that. No. Shitty. Also, no to this conversation.”

“But Crowley—”

“I said no,” the demon snaps. “You’re an angel, surely you understand consent? It can be withdrawn at any moment, including in the middle of a conversation.” He snaps his fingers and is wearing a midnight blue dress which hangs off one of his shoulders. “What do you think of this ensemble?”

“It’s lovely.”

The more the demon avoids something, the more it worries the angel. He should respect the man’s desires to keep secrets, things that only he knows, but it’s concerning.

“Are you just saying that?”

“No, it complements your earrings,” Aziraphale insists.

“Thanks.”

  
A few days later, Aziraphale brings it up again.

Crowley shuts him down again.

He’s starting to wonder if he’s going to have to use invasive tactics to figure out what’s bothering his demon. He could sneak into his dreams and watch them for himself, but Crowley _trusts him_ , and it would be idiotic to abuse that.

All the same, he can hardly stop himself from worrying.

“You know dear, you can tell me anything,” he says, trying for a different route.

Crowley looks over at him in the middle of doing his hair. He stands up straight and takes off his glasses.

While he wears them less often than before, Aziraphale doesn’t see his eyes nearly as much as he wants to.

“I know,” he says. “And I will. But not now.”

Aziraphale nods.

Time doesn’t matter when you’ve been around forever. The concept of urgency is foreign to beings like he and Crowley. The important thing is now _when_ , but that there _is_ a when. That eventually, at some point, he will explain himself.

As much as Aziraphale would like an immediate answer, he knows better than to push. It’s enough that he’ll get an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always subscribed to the philosophy that it doesn't matter WHEN someone tells me something, so long as they definitely have plans to tell it to me. In which case, I can be patient.


	53. Chapter 53

Crowley would very much like to kiss Aziraphale.

Since making an Effort, they haven’t kissed. He could’ve initiated something, but he hasn’t. Maybe because he’s overthinking it. What if making an Effort makes kissing _different_? What if the thing that they’ve both agreed has little to do with the actual act of touch itself suddenly _only_ becomes about touch? Will it lose its meaning? Will it stop being something they share in that special, ineffable way they do?

Scratch that. He is _definitely_ overthinking it.

He’s jealous of Artemis, who gets so freely coddled by Aziraphale. He wishes his animal form wasn’t so cold and reptilian. As badass as being a giant snake is, it leads to few snuggling opportunities. He wants to feel Aziraphale’s skin against his, just to _feel it_.

So when Aziraphale sits down in his armchair, Crowley find himself sitting on the armrest of said-chair.

“Did you want something, dear?”

What’s he supposed to say to that? _I want you to hold me_.

It sounds stupid.

So he doesn’t say that. Instead, he hands over _Mort_.

“Read to me.”

Aziraphale takes the book with his hands, and the demon wonders if he always stared at them as much as he does. “Where were we?”

“Hogswatch fair. Believe Death just showed up.”

“Ah, yes.

_“YOU ARE HERE SEEKING EMPLOYMENT?_

_Light dawned on Mort. “You are looking for an_ **_apprentice_ ** _?” he said._

_The eye sockets turned towards him, their actinic pinpoints flaring._

_OF COURSE._

Found it.

_“What was your job again?” said Lezek, talking to a black-robed skeleton without showing even a flicker of surprise._

_I USHER SOULS INTO THE NEXT WORLD, said Death._

_“Ah,” said Lezek, “of course, sorry, should have guessed from the clothes. Very necessary work, very steady. Established business?”_

_I HAVE BEEN GOING FOR SOME TIME, YES, said Death._

_“Good. Good. Never really thought of it as a job for Mort, you know, but it’s good work, good work, always very reliable. What’s your name?”_

_DEATH._

_“Dad—” said Mort urgently._

_“Can’t say I recognize the firm,” said Lezek. “Where are you based exactly?”_

_FROM THE UTTERMOST DEPTHS OF THE SEA TO THE HEIGHTS WHERE EVEN THE EAGLE MAY NOT GO said Death._

_“That’s fair enough,” nodded Lezek. “Well, I—”_

_“Dad—” said Mort, pulling at his father’s coat._

_Death laid a hand on Mort’s shoulder._

_WHAT YOUR FATHER SEES AND HEARS IS NOT WHAT YOU SEE AND HEAR, he said. DO NOT WORRY HIM. DO YOU THINK HE WOULD WANT TO SEE ME — IN THE FLESH, AS IT WERE?_

_“But you’re Death,” said Mort. “You go around killing people!”_

_I? KILL? said Death, obviously offended. CERTAINLY NOT. PEOPLE GET KILLED, BUT THAT’S THIER BUSINESS. I JUST TAKE OVER FROM THEN ON. AFTER ALL, IT’D BE A BLOODY STUPID WORLD IF PEOPLE GOT KILLED WITHOUT DYING, WOULDN’T IT?”_

“Told you this Pratchett knows what he’s talking about,” Crowley hums. “Can’t imagine the size of his brain. Must’ve been _huge_. Do you think he ever got tired? Carrying all that genius around with him? She did a good job on ‘im, I’d say.”

Aziraphale hums in agreement. Slowly, the demon tries to slide himself closer to the angel, leaning ever so slightly on him as Aziraphale turns the page.

_“Well, yes—” said Mort, doubtfully._

_Mort had never heard the word “intrigued”. It was not in regular use in the family vocabulary. But a spark in his soul told him that here was something weird and fascinating and not entirely horrible, and if he let this moment go he’d spend the rest of his life regretting it. And he remembered the humiliation of the day, and the long walk back home …_

_“Er,” he began, “I don’t have to die to get the job, do I?”_

_BEING DEAD IS NOT COMPULSORY._

_“And … the bones …?”_

_NOT IF YOU DON’T WANT TO._

_Mort breathed out again. It had been starting to prey on his mind._

_“If Father says it’s all right,” he said._

_They looked at Lezek, who was scratching his bead._

_“How do you feel about this, Mort?” he said, with the brittle brightness of a fever victim. “It’s not everyone’s idea of an occupation. It’s not what I had in mind, I admit. But they do say that undertaking is an honoured profession. It’s your choice.”_

_“Undertaking?” said Mort. Death nodded, and raised a finger to his lips in a conspiratorial gesture._

_“It’s interesting,” said Mort slowly. “I think I’d like to try it.”_

_“Where did you say your business was?” said Lezek. “Is it far?”_

_NO FURTHER THAN THE THICKNESS OF A SHADOW, said Death. WHERE THE FIRST PRIMAL CELL WAS, THERE WAS I ALSO. WHERE MAN IS, THERE AM I. WHEN THE LAST LIFE CRAWLS UNDER FREEZING STARS, THERE WILL I BE._

_“Ah,” said Lezek, “you get about a bit, then.” He looked puzzled, like a man struggling to remember something important, and then obviously gave up._

_Death patted him on the shoulder in a friendly fashion and turned to Mort._

“I have to say, Crowley, for a man you say is mortal, he seems to understand a fair bit.”

“Hmm,” Crowley says, leaning as much as he dares against the angel.

“Honestly dear, if you wish to sit with me, there’s no need to do this strange contortionist act.”

Crowley’s breath stops. “What?”

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You of all people should know I was not born yesterday.”

“I just, er, I wasn’t sure if …” Crowley straightens up a bit, but the position isn’t balanced and he tumbles to the ground, surprising Artemis out of Aziraphale’s lap. The kitten stretches on the oriental carpet, arching their back, before parading off proudly to wander elsewhere.

The angel puts a hand beneath Crowley’s chin and tsks softly. “I think you’re getting daft in your old age, my boy.”

“Am not,” he grumbles just a little but Aziraphale pulls him into a hug and Crowley melts into him. The entire panic concerning his Effort wasn’t actually worth, well, the _effort_. This is fine. In fact, it’s perfect.

There’s a different kind of joy to feeling Aziraphale against him now. Not only is he overjoyed at being so close to the one he loves, but his body itself is calmed by the solid body it feels. The warmth the angel emits makes him tingle, and there’s a kind of comfort that comes from this that hasn’t taken away from their experience, but _enhanced_ it.

They stay like that for who knows how long, until Artemis parades back in and meows softly, demanding food.

No, they haven’t lost anything in making an Effort.

They’ve _gained_ something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FRIENDLY REMINDER THAT ASEXUALS ARE VALID! Crowley’s comment is not meant to discredit the totally healthy and valuable relationships asexuals have!
> 
> Also, I know Gaiman claims that he and Terry have no idea who wrote what anymore, given the way they worked on Good Omens, but I will forever claim that: "Most books on witchcraft say that witches practice magic naked. This is because most books on witchcraft are written by men" was 100% Terry.


	54. Chapter 54

Crowley is leaning against him during an episode of _Doctor Who_ when it happens.

Aziraphale is absentmindedly stroking the demon’s hair, as he is want to do these past few months. The redhead doesn’t have any complaints so long as they aren’t going out to see anyone, so he relishes it as his fingers comb gently through the man’s fiery locks. It’s so soft, and he certainly doesn’t seem to complain.

The Scottish girl is speaking to herself, as is par for the course in an episode of _Doctor Who_ , arguing about why she (the other her) has to give up her existence.

_“You know when sometimes you meet someone so beautiful, and then you actually talk to them, and five minutes later they’re dull as a brick. But then there’s other people, and you meet them and you think ‘not bad, they’re okay’, and then you get to know them and their face sort of becomes them, like their personality’s written all over it, and they just turn into something so beautiful …”_

“OH! That’s you!” Aziraphale says, his grip tightening suddenly on Crowley’s hair in his surprise.

“Ngk!”

Aziraphale is about to check what _that_ particular sound coming from the demon’s mouth is, when Crowley jumps away from him.

“Red!”

“I’ve stopped,” Aziraphale says, holding up his hands for his partner to see. “Look, I’m not touching you. Did I do something wrong?”

Crowley gently runs his own hands through his hair and shakes his head. “No, I mean, yes, I mean … yellow?” He looks completely hopeless, lost in his own confusion. “I er …”

“What did I do?”

“You …” Crowley’s ears are awfully red, like they’re trying to become one with his hair. “You _pulled_ ,” he hisses. There’s something about his voice, like he’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not. “My hair, I mean. You pulled it.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No.”

Aziraphale doesn’t see what the problem is, quite frankly, —

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh.”

Aziraphale sits up straighter. The telly has paused itself, and Aziraphale shelves the beautiful quote for another day to explore with Crowley. “Do you … er …” He can _see_ what’s happening. Crowley’s painted on jeans reveal things, even when nothing is happening down there, but now … well, he’s sort of staring. He’s sure his embarrassment just reinforces Crowley’s belief that he ought to be embarrassed, so he tries to be casual about how he stares at him.

“I …” Crowley’s voice sounds odd, he’s missing an octave. “Shit, this is weird.” He stares at the floor, traces his foot along a random pattern in the carpet. “Okay, I’m going to talk about this, because I’m a reasonable, responsible … demon.” He clears his throat. “So. You … you pulled my hair. And I liked it.” He’s flushing, but he’s forcing the words out and Aziraphale knows it’s not the moment to say it, but he really is proud of him.

“What do you want to do, with that information?” Aziraphale asks because he really does not know what the next step is here.

The demon takes off his glasses, and attaches them to his shirt. His yellow eyes are narrowed into slightly smaller slits. “I’m not sure. Nothing, exactly. Not right now. I mean … Er, I’m not … in the mood? I guess, is what they say? And like, I feel more embarrassed than I do aroused.” He rocks on his feet, and closes his eyes. “Alright. So. We’ve discovered I’ve got a … _thing_ for my hair. Being pulled. I think. It only happened once. Could’ve been a fluke.” Crowley frowns. “Would you … er, this is a weird question, but would you do it again?”

“Hurt you?”

“I told you, it doesn’t _hurt_.” He takes a step closer and lowers his head slightly, as if in offering. “But er, yeah. If you could just. Tug on it, a little?”

“My dear—”

“I’ll tell you if you hurt me,” Crowley assures him. “I’m not the type to let you get away with shit, you know that. I’ve got quite the gob, and I know my lights and safe word.”

Hesitantly, Aziraphale reaches out and lets his hand run through Crowley’s hair once more. It’s soft and wonderful, and it feels odd to just suddenly grab it and pull at the luscious strands so he doesn’t, not immediately. Instead, he waits a little bit, allows himself to essentially massage the demon’s head, and just when he lets out an irritated growl, for the angel to get on with it, he pulls.

A choked sound comes out of Crowley’s mouth and Aziraphale’s about to let go—

“Don’t.” He sounds just a bit unsteady. “I mean. Green. Opposite of apples. Keep going. Please. If you like.”

It feels weird, to sit in his armchair with Crowley leaning at an odd angle forward just for him to tousle his hair, and occasionally grip it in his fist. The demon’s breathing is quiet, like he’s barely inhaling.

They go on like this for perhaps five minutes before Crowley says “stop”, and Aziraphale instantly lets go.

The demon rights himself and nods, his face even more flushed. “Right so. Not a one time thing.” He blinks. “Well then. I think I’m going to just …” He gestures wildly, a signal that does not exist, before he lets his arms fall uselessly to his sides. “Explore that, I guess. By myself. A bit. See what … that’s supposed to mean.”

Crowley turns sharply on his heel and then parades out of the sunlit room.

The demon really is the most beautiful thing Aziraphale has ever seen, and he must do well to remind him of such a thing. As for Crowley’s … _problem_ , Aziraphale discovers he himself has had some sort of reaction to the small sounds the demon himself was making during the entire encounter.

That’s new.

Probably warrants some investigation itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you name the episode? (And I DO watch things other than Doctor Who but ... c'mon. It's Doctor Who.)


	55. Chapter 55

So. He likes having his hair pulled.

What the fuck does that mean?

He spends a few hours locked in his bedroom, tugging at his own hair, trying to recreate the sensation, just to figure out _why_. It does _something_ , but not the same thing as when Aziraphale does it. There’s a nice kind of sting to it though, a dull ache that reminds him he’s _alive_ , and so maybe that means something.

He and Aziraphale agree not to touch his hair like that again for a while. As for his problem, Crowley finds if he just ignores it for long enough, it goes away, so that’s a nice thing.

This whole thing is so _new_ and uncertain. It fills him with a giddiness, something he’d call child-like if he dared. He decides to give into the terrible creation that is the Internet and does far more research than he’s ever done.

So.

There are things called _kinks,_ which is not the same thing as a _fetish_ , but a _fetish_ is a type of kink.

Where do humans get these words?

“Aziraphale!” he calls out. “I think we need to watch porn!”

Azirapahle, is, as the humans say, not impressed.

“Listen, I don’t like it anymore than you do, but it’s not like there’s a handbook about how to do that sort of thing. I don’t even … I mean, I _know_ what sex is, and how it works, but I’ve just gotten sort of used to this Effort, and so I’m not gonna change it to be something that fits into Tab A into Tab B, and I’m not going to make _you_ change your junk, so like, I think we have to do it this way? With these … parts.And it’s been a while since Greece. Contrary to popular belief, I have _not_ memorized every instance I’ve seen an orgy. What if we explode? What if we _die_?”

Aziraphale looks like he regrets ever bringing up making an Effort.

“I thought we were going at our own pace.”

“We are,” Crowley insists. “But like. First we gotta see how far we’re gonna go. Like, if the idea of putting something _there_ appeals to either of us, in general. And like, you know. That sort of thing.”

The angel rubs his temple, and lets out an exasperated breath, which Crowley totally understands, but it’s not like they can go un-educated into this. The education system for _humans_ when it comes to intercourse is severely lacking, but that doesn’t mean _they_ have to be dimwits about it too.

“It’s not supposed to be comfortable, you know that. We were probably going to have to do it at some point. Watch porn, that is. Not like, have sex. Cause that’s totally an option to not do. That sounded weird. We don’t have to. There are people who have genitalia and still don’t really want to engage in that sort of thing, so maybe we’re the same.”

Aziraphale takes a seat next to Crowley on his bed. “Just … press play. Before I come to my senses.”

Crowley does.

“Oh my Somebody.”

Crowley knows intellectually this is supposed to be … enticing? Arousing? But all he has is questions. _Why_ are they doing this? What is the point of it? And not in that questioning why bother with sex if you can’t reproduce way he sometimes wonders why people bother, but _why_ because it doesn’t look like that thing should fit inside of another person.

“Are you finding this … stimulating?” asks Aziraphale.

“Not really,” Crowley says, wincing as the man on the screen lurches forward. “Looks painful.”

“He seems to be enjoying it.”

“Well, he’s a human. What does he know?” Crowley shifts on the bed from discomfort. “That’s … disconcerting.”

“Can he breathe like that?”

“He’s getting awfully red in the face, I don’t think he can.”

A few more minutes pass.

“OKAY!” Crowley slams the lid of the computer down. “Well then. Seems we’re on our own for this.”

“That was … horrifying.”

The demon nods. “We’ll just … take it slow, yeah? Go at our speed. Like we did before.”

“Right.”

Crowley’s not quite sure watching porn has done anything other than given the two of them a healthy fear of sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They are not watching a particular video, they're just saying some thoughts I've had when watching porn. Also, I want to fight the way sex ed is taught because fuck, is it horrendous.


	56. Chapter 56

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm running out of content to post twice a week because I'm weird about writing smut and shit so I'll be updating on Mondays only now until my backlog grows.

“Expiry dates were my idea.”

Aziraphale hums in acknowledgement as he enters a new aisle at the local market. They’ve run out of milk, and while they could just Miracle some up, they both admit there are some things that are just _better_ without magic.

“The paranoia gets to the humans like nothing else,” Crowley says, juggling a honey crisp apple from one hand to another. He glares at the pear display.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t turn them all sour, or whatever other little annoyance you want. You’re mad at the pears, not the humans who’ll eat the pears.”

Crowley sighs.

They’re so … _domestic_ this way.

Aziraphale has come to appreciate this kind of casualty between them. As immortal beings, there are some types of intimacies they just _don’t_ experience by nature of being eternal. Things like promising their short lifespan to another person has little to no meaning. Important dates all fade into the background, and time is more of an illusion, on the days it’s not just a pesky reminder that a construct is passing. But they have other intimacies.

That Aziraphale remembers Crowley’s disliking of pears, mentioned _once_ , over a hundred years ago, _that’s_ something to cherish.

When they get to the register, Crowley gets into a fight with a chip and pin machine. More accurately, he shouts abuse at it while the pin machine most likely wonders what it’s done to deserve such treatment.

Once the pin machine finally bends to demon’s will, he notices Aziraphale staring at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

Aziraphale kisses him lightly. “C’mon, I think the Bentley’s double parked.”

Crowley truly is a marvel, and he’s more than blessed to have him.


	57. Chapter 57

Aziraphale _cannot_ know about the Fire.

Logically, Crowley has been through many traumatic events in his long life. The Fall, the War that resulted in the Fall. Returning to Heaven under the guise of Aziraphale, defying his bosses … Walking into a nazi infested church during the Blitz, of all things, but nothing haunts him like the Fire.

It was the first time he truly lost sight of Aziraphale.

He’s always been able to feel the other, somewhere in the world. Even during those times they only saw each other every few centuries, he was able to sense his presence. He knew he was okay, somewhere, doing something. It gave him a type of comfort he doesn’t think humans could begin to understand.

And then the Fire happened.

The last thing he had said to him …

_“And when I’m up in the stars, I won’t even think of you!”_

He was truly _gone_.

Crowley wonders if the angel knows how panicked he is when he loses track of him. They’ll be socializing at a BBQ, and Aziraphale will be next to him, and then gone the next. The heart of his corporation makes a valiant effort to leap of his chest until his eyes settle on his companion again.

There’s a part of him that’s haunted by the voice of Aziraphale in the bar.

_“I lost my best friend.”_

_"I'm so sorry to hear it."_

Did the dumbass not realize he was talking about him? That the moment Aziraphale died, there was no point in going anywhere? That his need to escape only lasted so long as he had something worth escaping _with_?

He brings it up while they’re on a walk.

“You know you’re my best friend, yeah?”

“I thought I was your …” Aziraphale stumbles with his words. “Thing.”

“Thing?”

“We weren’t really putting a label on it.”

“Ah yes. I’d like you to meet Aziraphale, he’s my … thing.”

“Well, it sounds stupid when you put it like that.”

“It sounds stupid however you put it.”

Aziraphale pauses. “I suppose you’re right.”

“You can be multiple things, you know.” Crowley entwines their fingers together. His hands are sweaty, and his cheeks are flushed, but his embarrassment is secondary to getting such an important message across to the angel. “You’re not just _one thing_. You’re an angel, but that’s a part of you. Parts of a whole, not part.”

“Right.”

Crowley frowns. “You don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

The demon stops walking. The angel does as well.

Carefully, Crowley pockets his sunglasses and places them in his front pocket.

“You don’t see yourself. Not properly.”

Letting go of the light haired man’s hand, he reaches out his hands for his face, but stops them before they truly touch. He waits. Aziraphale nods. With gentle hands, he frames his face.

“You are so much bigger than you think you are. So much _more_ than you see.”

Heaven’s love comes at a price. One that strips you of identity. Turns you into a machine. Crowley’s quite sure the only thing that’s saved Aziraphale from such a fate is his long time on Earth. Maybe that’s what’s saved Crowley from being like Hastur too.

Humanity is so much bigger on the inside, and it affects everything it touches.

He doesn’t feel vulnerable, not right now, even with Aziraphale looking him dead in the eye. The angel’s gaze is so focused on him, maybe that’s why he can’t see himself.

Crowley’s got to fix that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, does anyone remember this plot point? (This is what happens when you just kinda ... write and then circle back whenever the fuck you feel like it.)


	58. Chapter 58

There are two toothbrushes inside of a small cup in the bathroom.

Aziraphale didn’t put them there, so it had to have been Crowley.

They don’t _need_ to brush their teeth the way humans do. Maintenance of their physical form is a lot simpler when you’ve got Miracles at your fingertips. There’s an intimacy in having shared toiletries though. Crowley has simulated that intimacy for no reason other than to do it.

“Crowley?”

“Hmm, angel?”

“I love you.”

Crowley pops his head into the bathroom. “What brought that on?”

“Nothing. I just thought I should tell you.”

Crowley flushes. He’s terrible at hearing nice things said to him. “Ah. Well. Er. Same.”

They stare at each other.

“Was that all?”

“That was all.”

“Right.”

Crowley leaves Aziraphale chucking after him.

And then the door opens again and Crowley’s kissing him softly. One hand on the bathroom sink, the other on the towel rack. Their lips brush against each other lightly, and it’s clearly meant to be chaste, but before he can pull away, Aziraphale pulls him back in and lingers.

They separate, foreheads leaning against each other.

“Greedy angel,” Crowley coos.

“You started it.”

“Let’s not get into schematics.” Crowley kisses him lightly on the nose before slipping out of the room once more. “Should I expect a blowjob when I decide on a toothpaste, then?”

Aziraphale chokes.

“Joking! I’m joking!” Crowley says quickly. “No pressure. No need. Er.”

The angel chuckles at the absolutely flustered tone.

He truly does love his demon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically I was thinking of a scene from New Girl when Jess and Nick brush their teeth next to each other and smile after a long day and it's just ... so cute and adorable and domestic and they're not dating in that moment but you can feel the energy and just the cuteness and then I was like "I wanna write that for Crowley & Aziraphale" but then I was like "fuck ... do they have to brush their teeth?". So this happened.


	59. Chapter 59

In Crowley’s humble opinion, he and Aziraphale are getting rather good at this whole kissing thing.

They were watching an episode of _Doctor Who,_ as if there’s anything else they’d do with a telly in the UK, and then Aziraphale had just looked at him a certain way and he had wanted to kiss the expression on his face. So he did.

Now, a few minutes later, they haven’t stopped.

Aziraphale’s lips are soft, pliable under Crowley’s own. He’s got a hand on his shoulder, trying to keep himself steady as Aziraphale hums pleasantly into his mouth. There’s the lightest nip at his lower lip, and Crowley takes this to mean they’ve moved onto _that_ part of kissing, that they’ve discovered.

Kissing can get a bit tricky when you add tongues into the mix. The demon thinks they’re faring rather well, all things considered. No one has lost their tongue, which must be a good thing.

At the current moment, his tongue is entering Aziraphale’s mouth. He grips the angel’s shoulder tighter, and readjusts himself on the couch so that he is seated in the principality’s lap. Arms wrap around his waist, and Crowley feels supported and just a bit light headed.

They pull apart, and press their foreheads against each other.

“Pesky breathing,” Aziraphale rasps.

“We don’t _need_ to breathe,” Crowley reminds.

“Feels like we do, after this sort of thing.”

Crowley hums in agreement, then closes the gap between them again.

Aziraphale kisses him like he’s a delectable treat. It’s intoxicating in its own way. It makes his toes curl, from excitement, delight, some other human emotion that fills his chest so fully, he can’t quite name it, but he presses against Aziraphale, feels the friction between the two of them.

A sound escapes one of their mouths. Crowley can’t tell whose. He can’t tell where he begins, or where Aziraphale starts. He grips harder, glad he didn’t choose to wear nails today or else they might be breaking the angel’s skin, and he presses as close as he can between the two of them.

“Angel,” he manages to say, his mind going a little fuzzy. “I don’t …”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale’s lips move from Crowley’s mouth to his cheeks, his chin, his neck.

“I …” Crowley can’t remember what he was trying to say. One of his hands tangles into Aziraphale’s luscious hair, and he pulls him closer to his neck. Feels the angel’s tongue on his skin, and nearly giggles when he strikes a particularly ticklish spot.

“Alright, dear?”

“Perfect,” Crowley says, using his grip to direct Aziraphale’s lips to his own once more.

  
Crowley wakes up feeling … wet.

Throwing off his sheets, he finds a strange liquid, almost translucent.

 _Well_ , Crowley thinks. _This is new._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOW we're getting somewhere.


	60. Chapter 60

Crowley’s been _weird_ lately.

Like, avoiding him weird. It reminds Aziraphale of when he first brought up making an Effort. He’s not sure how to bring it up, but he also knows dancing around the topic hardly makes it go away. If anything, it makes it worse.

So while Crowley is brushing Artemis one morning, Aziraphale brings it up with the most casual voice he can, to avoid his demon running away at the slightest hint of confrontation.

“My boy, you’ve been … odd, recently.”

“Ngk?”

“I just mean … well, you’ve been avoiding me.”

“Oh.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

Crowley shakes his head. He may clench Artemis’ fur a bit too tightly, causing the kitten to let out a strange sound. He soothes his touch quickly, and she resettles in his lap. “I just … er …” He frowns. “Well, I sleep.”

Aziraphale waits, because they both know this, and clearly there’s something more to it.

“And er, my body … _does things_. Without my permission.”

Ah. The angel is starting to understand where this is going.

“Well, there’s no problem with that—”

“Isn’t there?” Crowley asks, his voice laced with something critical and biting, not aimed at Aziraphale, but at himself. “I’ve had this body for over millennia, and yet I can’t control it? What kind of a demon am I?”

“A demon who is trying something new.” Aziraphale moves from his place in his chair and sits near Crowley. He reaches out slightly. “May I?”

Crowley nods minutely.

Aziraphale’s hand settles on Crowley’s arm. “Your body isn’t the same as it was in the Beginning. You’ve changed it. _We’re_ changing it. This was bound to happen at some point or another, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I mean, ideally, it wouldn’t happen at all.” Crowley’s frowning, his brows scrunching up so fiercely, Aziraphale can see their precise movements even with the sunglasses.

“We don’t live in an ideal world. But it’s _okay_. There’s no reason to be ashamed.”

“I’m not ‘shamed,” Crowley pouts.

“Of course not, dear.”

Artemis curls up tighter in Crowley’s lap, as if sensing the demon’s discomfort.

“We’ve decided to make an Effort, and that takes, well, _effort_. Yes, it’s new and strange, and bizarre, but we’re doing it _together_. We need to share these types of things with each other. Only the two of us know exactly what we’re going through, so we need solidarity. Unless you don’t want this? We can also stop making an Effort.”

Crowley’s head whips around so fast. “No, I … I don’t … er, that is, I’m not _that_ uncomfortable. I just … I don’t talk about this shit. It’s not … er, it’s never been my area, before. I mean, I’m a _demon_ , but not _that_ kind of demon, you know?”

“And you’re still not. Your Effort isn’t for anyone else, is it?”

“No!” he sounds scandalized that Aziraphale would even suggest such a thing.

“So talk to me about this, okay?” He makes sure his voice is calm and soothing, not revealing any of his own anxiety at the moment. There are times when being vulnerable in a moment together helps build confidence, but Crowley looks one second from falling apart and so Aziraphale has to toughen his resolve.

“Mkay, angel …” Crowley bites his lip. “Does this mean I have to tell you exactly what happened in the dream?”

“Only if you want to.”

Crowley wrinkles his nose. “Erm. Maybe not in front of Artemis.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “When you’re ready, I’m all ears.”


	61. Chapter 61

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the chapter that inspired me to NEED to write a kidifc. It's called "baby steps" and for some reason, is still waiting on the kid part ...

Crowley’s gotten to know the children of the South Downs rather well. Or at least, the ones who live on his street.

There’s Lyla, the absolute delight. Her favourite colour is turquoise because “purple and pink are uncreative colours created to oppress me”. He can already tell she’s going to be a feisty feminist, and he’s very excited. She’s the unofficial leader of her squad of friends, and Crowley can’t think of a better person to be in charge. Her light brown hair is long enough to be done in braids, but occasionally she likes them in pigtails. She’s very insistent on symmetry.

Timothy lives two houses to the left of Lyla. He’s been dressed by his mother every single day of his life, and it shows. For some reason, his mum is insistent on using gel on his dark hair. He’d almost remind Crowley of Wensleydale, except Timothy will undoubtedly crack after living in such an overbearing, but doting home. His mother doesn’t think she’s doing anything wrong, but she could afford to give him an inch. Crowley imagines he’ll do something crazy once he’s out of the home, like become a YouTuber, or send photographs to whoever makes postcards and insist on using them for their landscapes. He likes Crowley’s painted nails, which is a plus, but he’s very insistent that liking nail polish doesn’t make him girly so maybe his parents are fucking up with toxic masculinity.

Rhys lives next door to Timothy. “Rhys, like rice, not Reese”, he had introduced himself to Crowley. He was rather disappointed to not have Reese’s Pieces associated with him, until he realized he didn’t like chocolate. It means he’s one step closer to living his own truth. Rhys is the type of boy who has a new hobby every other week. Lately, it’s been magic tricks. He enjoys the top hat very much. Crowley suspects he and Aziraphale would get along lovely. Maybe if the obsession sticks around a bit longer, the demon’ll show him some real magic.

And then there’s Anna. Anna’s favourite type of princess is the pirate kind. She wants to have a pet tiger, like Princess Jasmine, but in this version of the story, Aladdin’ll be her comedic sidekick as she goes around Robin Hood style and rights the wrongs of her country. She’s as fiery as her hair, and she’s completely oblivious to how much Rhys is trying to impress her. That’s never going to happen. Firstly because Crowley knows Anna will grow up to be a lesbian. For another, Anna is too much for Rhys to handle, no matter how “cool” he seems to think he is.

That’s okay though, Crowley knows Timothy’ll be waiting for Rhys’ bi-awakening.

The point is, Crowley knows the children of the South Downs. He’d call them his friends, if it didn’t sound so lame.

They’ve gotten these BBQ nights down to a science.

Crowley and Aziraphale mingle with the adults for however long it takes for one of the little ones to run up to Crowley, and allow him escape. Then Aziraphale entertains the neighbors until the children start feeling drowsy, at which point, the angel and demon are both exhausted as well and go off to refuel. Nights they host are a bit chaotic, but they’re figuring it out.

When that time rolls around, Anna is poking fun at Timothy for his allergies and Lyla had run off with Rhys for a game of 52 Pick Up. He finds the six year old curled up at the foot of a tree, fast asleep.

With as quiet a grunt as he can manage, Crowley lifts the girl up and takes her over to her parents.

“She fell asleep, the little tyke,” he jokes as he hands her over to Patrick, her father.

“Thank you so much,” he says.

“No problem.”

“Oh, and also, about Friday,” says Celeste, Patrick’s wife.

Crowley’s brow furrows. “Friday?”

Aziraphale can be spotted over Celeste’s shoulder, making a frantic gesture with his hands indicating Crowley ought to shut up right this instant. “Ah, yes, Friday,” he says, still confused.

Celeste smiles at him and Crowley mirrors her.

Once they manage to escape relatively unscathed, Crowley shuts the cottage door and turns to his angel.

“What’s happening on Friday?”

“You must understand, dear boy, I think they got confused when we were talking. About Lyla, of course, parents rarely want to speak of little else— She certainly speaks often of Her children— but, well, er, there was a … mix up.”

Crowley waits patiently. It does no good to rush the angel along, no matter how impatient he is feeling.

“See, er … Patrick and Celeste have a business meeting down in Mayfair, and you get along so well with their daughter that they uh— well, they _may_ have requested we pick her up after school.”

“And surely you said something totally sensible about how we are other worldly beings with no idea how to care for their six year old daughter, correct?”

“Er.”

“Wonderful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I was thinking of writing a fic about Timothy and Rhys ... if anyone would be interested? (They'd be older, obviously, but like Crowley, I've fallen in love with these kids)


	62. Chapter 62

Aziraphale doesn’t have a problem with children, so much as he has a difficulty.

Sometimes he forgets that age is a thing, and that one does not treat an infant the same way one would treat, say, a five year old. Sometimes he gets it right. Often, he does not.

That’s not exactly a problem, given that Crowley is enough of an expert for the two of them. (There’s a reason Crowley was a nanny and Aziraphale stuck to gardening. Not that Crowley had been all that impressed by the angel’s daffodils.) 

But then they’re tasked with picking up Lyla.

“Are you sure this is the right place?”

“Am I sure?” Crowley snaps. “No, there’s a thousand other elementary schools in the South Downs. Surely our neighbours dined to put their child at that special school, you know, on the other side of the mountain range.”

“I was just checking.”

Crowley lets out a slight huff. “I know. You’re getting anxious.”

“It’s hard not to be. I mean, this is a child. A living, breathing child!”

“You didn’t have this reaction to Warlock. Or Adam.”

“Yes, well, that’s because—”

“You saw them more as anti-Christs than as children, didn’t you?”

It feels like a bad thing to admit aloud so Aziraphale places his hands in his lap and scans the grassy fields as the children begin pouring out of school.

“C’mon, let’s get this over with.”

Despite his crass tone, Aziraphale knows Crowley loves children. He supposes his attitude is just for appearances sake. He remembers clearly the aghast expression on Crowley’s face when he realized that children would not be spared in the Flood.

 _“Personally I’m not up for killing kids,”_ he had said. Even his suggestion to kill the Anti-Christ came days before Armageddon, and he had suggested Aziraphale be the one to do it. For all his protests, Crowley has a parental nature in him. Aziraphale saw the gifts he got Warlock during his tenure as a nanny. And there was no demonic reason to put Warlock’s grades on the fridge.

“Oi! Lyla!” Crowley calls out and Aziraphale follows after him quickly, sending apologetic looks at the parents who were not expecting this strange duo to show up on a Friday afternoon.

“Agent Crowley!”

Lyla runs up to Crowley and wraps her arms around his waist, her grubby hands dirty and though Crowley cringes the slightest bit at the sudden armful of child, Aziraphale can already see him demonic Miracling away the grime.

“Your parents told you we’d be here to pick you up, yeah?”

“Yes,” says Lyla. “Thank you so much!”

Aziraphale is rather fond of the brunette. She knows her manners.

“You just have to sign me out,” says Lyla. “Because you’re not my mum or dad, so the teacher won’t let me go with you unless you sign me out.”

It makes sense, but Aziraphale doubts it’s a flawless system. If he didn’t know Crowley and he saw him suddenly appear, claiming to be responsible for a child between the ages of four to eleven, he’d have his doubts.

Crowley walks carefully with Lyla attached to his hip towards the school entrance, no doubt trying to figure out where he’s supposed to sign so he can get the heck out of there. Lyla’s friends are whining at how lucky she is to be picked up by the cool Agent Crowley and Aziraphale nods politely as he follows his partner and Lyla to a nice looking gentleman with glitter on his nose.

“Hullo,” says Crowley. “I’m here to take Lyla home.”

“Right,” says the man with a bright, but tired smile. “So you’re Anthony J. Crowley, yes?”

Crowley nods, and turns to the angel. “That there is Aziraphale.”

The man squints at his clipboard. “Ah, that’s how it’s pronounced. Strange name.”

“Is it?” Crowley asks, and Aziraphale can just tell from his tone he’s about to try and defend the angel’s non-existent hurt feelings over his name. “Is it _really_? What’s your name? Dave? You look like a Dave. Awfully boring name, Dave. Least Aziraphale’s memorable.”

Lyla tugs at Crowley’s shirt. “Mummy says you’re not allowed to bully people.”

“I’m not bullying ‘im,” says Crowley sharply. “I’m teaching him a lesson.”

“One that he can surely learn later,” Aziraphale cuts in. “Thank you so much, we’ll just be going now!”

Crowley lets Lyla ride on his shoulders on their way over to the Bentley, and a part of Aziraphale is very panicked that the small child will just suddenly plummet to the ground, but another part of him is overjoyed at watching Crowley work his magic with children. Humans really are a marvel, and Aziraphale understands Crowley’s preference for the smaller ones.

“Put her in the car for me, angel,” says Crowley, handing Lyla over. The girl pouts ever so slightly at being lowered from her higher position, but allows Aziraphale to herd her to the back. Opening the back door, she gets inside.

Crowley closes the driver’s seat door just as Lyla points out something rather important.

“There are no seatbelts.”

“Aren’t there?”

Aziraphale Miracles seatbelts, and must wonder how Crowley has gone so long without them, or if he had them removed. Considering that the only people who ride in the Bentley tend to be himself and the angel, it wouldn’t surprise him if it just slipped the demon’s mind.

“Wow! They just appeared! Agent Crowley, you never told me you had a magic car!”

“Yup,” Crowley says, popping the p. “How about some Queen?”

They drive Lyla back to her own house, and open the door using the key which is hidden in a small crack in the bricks.

“Know when your parents will be back?”

“Er,” Lyla says, tilting her head adorably. “I think by five.”

That’s in almost three hours.

Aziraphale deeply regrets agreeing to look after Lyla.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't remember Anathema having a seatbelt in the backseat ...


	63. Chapter 63

These were not the plans Crowley had for his Friday afternoon, but considering all things, it could be much worse. Lyla is a delight, as usual, and insists on having an after-school snack.

Aziraphale scours the kitchen while Crowley keeps her entertained. Or rather, asks her a bunch of questions.

“Don’t you have, er …” What do humans do in school? “Homework?”

“It’s Friday,” says Lyla like that answers his question and doesn’t pose in and of itself a bunch of other questions.

“Ah, right,” says Crowley. Does Friday mean there is no homework? Does it mean that you shouldn’t do homework, even if you have it, just because it’s Friday? Is she trying to pull one over on him just because he’s not her parent? “Friday.”

“Friday means no homework,” says Lyla, rolling her eyes.

Aziraphale comes in with a small plate with cookies. Lyla’s eyes go really wide and Crowley suddenly thinks perhaps they should’ve gotten notes about how to look after a six year old. Are they allowed cookies at three in the afternoon?

“Thank you!” Lyla says. Crowley doesn’t miss the smile on the angel’s face over her manners.

“So, back to Friday and homework. Do you really not have homework? Or is it that you just don’t wanna do your homework?”

Lyla takes her sweet time chewing on her cookie, like she knows the answer to this question should be truthful, but she doesn’t want to admit it. She swallows, and asks for some milk instead of answering, as if Crowley can’t see through that tactic.

“You’ll get your milk _after_ you answer me.”

Lyla sighs. “I have a _little_ homework.” She squeezes her fingers together to show just how small her workload is.

“Well, if it’s small, isn’t it easier to get it done early, and have the whole weekend free of work?” Aziraphale asks, which Crowley must agree with. It was always easier to do paperwork from home office immediately rather than letting it pile up. After all, that meant he wouldn’t have to spend years figuring out the T-87 form, or cancel when the angel asked if he had plans. Though, the demon in him wants to suggest some procrastination. A little work means it’s done quickly, so you don’t need to get to it right away.

“I’ve got an idea,” Crowley says. “How about you finish your snack, and do some homework? When you’re done, we can have a … a dance party.”

“Really?” asks Lyla, her eyes alight with that child-like wonder. Well, the actually child wonder, given that she’s a child.

“Yes. But _only_ if you finish your work.”

She pulls out a sheet that looks meant for colouring. Crowley’s experience with homework is the invention of it. That’s all. He’s quite sure colouring is not work. But there are small equations inside each shape. He’s not sure if it’s genius or evil that they’ve turned colouring educational.

“I have a reading log,” Lyla says. “I need to read 15 minutes a day, and write about what I read. And have my parents sign. I don’t like it. The words don’t make sense.”

“Cheers to that,” Crowley says.

“You can still like it, even if it’s hard,” Aziraphale says because not liking books is blasphemy. “How about I read some aloud and then you?”

“I don’t like to read aloud. The teacher makes us do it in front of the class and I always mess up.”

Oh, that’s true villainy. Forced to read aloud in front of your peers? As if children aren’t self conscious enough these days. Whoever came up with that idea must’ve gotten a commendation.

“Aziraphale has some good books though, don’t you, angel?” Crowley says.

“Of course! How would you like us to read _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland?_ ”

“Ooh, I loved that movie!” says Lyla, and Crowley wrinkles his nose.

“Tim Burton’s got a place reserved in Hell,” the demon mutters.

“Oh hush, you just don’t like Alice.”

“Because she’s _stupid_ ,” Crowley bemoans. “No child, no matter what age, has that few brain cells. At least in the books, Caroll gave her the excuse that like, LSD was _everywhere_ , so it’s not even supposed to make sense, but good ol’ Timmy really doubled down on that ‘dumb blonde’ idea.”

After much dispute and argument, Aziraphale ends up reading with Lyla, and they finish the first chapter of _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ , much to Crowley’s chagrin.

The time passes by rather quickly, actually, and by the time the parents arrive, they’re in the middle of finishing the gavotte lessons.

“Thank you so much,” says Patrick, with that look of a tired worker who has once again begun questioning why he contributes to capitalism on a daily basis. “Lyla had fun, didn’t she?”

“Yup!” says the six-year-old, popping the p.

“We’ll have to ask you to babysit sometime again in the future,” says Celeste and Crowley’s torn between horror and excitement.


	64. Chapter 64

“Your hair is getting rather long.”

“Is that a complaint?”

“Just an observation,” Aziraphale hums, running his fingers through the soft strands. “Would you like me to cut it for you?”

The demon tenses against the angel’s chest for a moment. “Let you, near my head, with _scissors_?”

“I could Miracle your hair away.”

“Doesn’t ever turn out quite right,” Crowley says. “Though, if you want to, suppose I can’t stop you.”

Aziraphale’s hands pause in their movement. “You can. All you have to do is say no. I would never _force_ you to do anything.”

Crowley twists in his position on the minimalist couch. “I know that. I was only teasing. You take everything to be some big comment about consent, or something. Can I not tease you now that we have dicks?”

“I just mean, it’s better to be overly cautious.”

“Ah, and here I was hoping I could tie you up one day.”

Aziraphale frowns ever so slightly. It conjures an image that he doesn’t quite know how he feels about. Something full of trepidation, but also curiosity. Given the completely controlling nature of Heaven, he’s not sure he’s ready to let Crowley take control in such a way, even as he jokes. But the concept of the redhead bound … well, that certainly does _something_ to him.

“Did I just discover a new kink of yours?”

The angel’s cheeks burn appropriately at the comment. “I was just … ruminating.”

“About BDSM?”

“Goodness, BDSM sounds so … _violent_.”

“That’s sort of the idea,” Crowley teases gently. “But in all honesty, if it’s something you’re interested in, maybe we should figure out the vanilla stuff first, yeah? Don’t want to bite off more than we can chew.”

“Well, I was …” Aziraphale’s face is _burning_. This is not where he was expecting this conversation to go. “I wasn’t so much thinking of myself being all, er … tied up, as it were.”

“Oh?” One of the demon’s eyebrows arch gracefully over his glasses, promising some sort of mischief. “Do you like the idea of punishing your little occult miscreant?”

“Er …”

“Oh, shit, I think you do.”

Crowley adjusts himself on the couch so that they are now properly facing each other. He takes off his glasses, his yellow eyes flashing in the light. “I’m onboard, if you’re into that. But again, should probably cover our OG bases first. You know, actually _touching_ a cock before we think about restraining limbs.” Crowley grins as he chews on the end of his glasses. “Blindfolds are also fun, I’m told.”

“Crowley!”

“I’m teasing. Maybe. Who knows?” He winks, and Aziraphale isn’t sure what to do with a demon as beautiful as Crowley making those types of advances on him. It’s exciting but also overwhelming in a way that makes him want the world to just … pause, for a moment at least so he can figure out what’s going on.

“Anyway, that wasn’t what we were talking about. My hair. You can cut it, if you want. Though, I must ask if you know what you’re doing.”

“I’ve had some serious talks with my barber about some techniques,” says Aziraphale, understanding that their non-existent sex life topic has been tabled, but not forgotten. He understands how important this is, given Crowley’s obsession with his own appearance.

His hair is something he prides himself on. In some ways, the angel thinks it defines him more than anything else Crowley sports. To give that control over to Aziraphale is a sign of trust that’s never been precedented before.

“Well, then I suppose I’m in good hands.”

 _Yes_ , Aziraphale thinks, _in this and all other matters._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't come here for kink negotiation and I also didn't plan to write it but ... here we are.


	65. Chapter 65

Crowley’s … well, he’s nervous.

Which seems utterly stupid because he _trusts_ Aziraphale, and it’s just a haircut, but there’s a part of him that’s still on edge when the angel places a towel on his shoulders. His body is tensing up against his will, no matter how he tries to relax it.

The angel is not a threat to him. He is doing him a _favour_ , and it’s almost human-like domesticity. All the same, he feels anxious. It seems wrong to be, considering his history with the angel.

Maybe it’s because he’s never put himself at another’s mercy like this. Even if it sounds dramatic, Crowley’s appearance is of high importance and to give so much control to another is … well, it’s vulnerable. A show of trust that Aziraphale has definitely earned, but all the same. They didn’t switch bodies so much as they swapped appearances and so it wasn’t like Crowley’s (demonic) soul was placed into an angelic body. This is something different.

But then he remembers how patient and careful and just … _perfect_ Aziraphale was about his shedding. That’s all it takes to get his shoulders to relax and his muscles to soften.

“Alright then, I’ve got it all set up for you.”

Aziraphale has placed a fluffy towel on the edge of the bathroom sink, and set up a chair for Crowley to sit in. The demon takes his seat erasing, and tips his head back.

“Have to get rid of those glasses, I’m afraid.”

Crowley wears them so often, he forgets. They’re a constant weight on his face that he’s become a costumed to. He’s been trying to wear them less, because the angel has indicated he doesn’t mind his snake eyes— the persistent reminder of what he is. But he can’t quite make him shed them as often as he should. Slowly, he takes them off and attaches them to his shirt.

He closes his eyes instantly.

No need to terrify anyone.

“Alright. I’m going to wash your hair before we begin.”

“Sounds so official,” Crowley teases lightly.

“Yes, well.”

The water begins running.

Crowley’s never been particularly fond of water. Not to say that he dislikes it, but there’s a warmth to fire. Flames are inviting. Water … well, water reminds him of drowning. He can swim just fine, but just because he doesn’t need to breathe doesn’t mean he can’t drown. He thinks about it sometimes. What drowning would be like. Thinks about Holy Water, and the divide it drove between he and the angel for nearly a century.

This is not that water.

This is liquid meant to wet his hair, meant to calm him, even.

He lets it.

Lets himself drown with Aziraphale’s gentle hands in his hair.

Crowley doesn’t mean to, but he becomes boneless as the angel’s fingers run through his hair. The feeling of his nails on his scalp make him melt just a little, and he feels like goo by the time he rinses. Then he goes in again, washing just one more time. The demon may let out a few sounds he’d have preferred to keep to himself, but he’s not going to be judged for them.

He loves the feeling of his hair being played with. The sensation of fingers combing through the locks is divine, and when his scalp is massaged in a certain way, he loses control of his sighs. Something about his hair being wet makes each scrap of nail all the more powerful and felt and feels like he’s come out of a trance once the water is turned off.

“How short would you like your hair?” asks Aziraphale, like he’s actually a professional hairdresser.

“Hmmm…” as it is now, Crowley’s hair is about as long as it was during the Hippie movement. He likes his hair, might even say he loves it, and taking care of it is no hassle, not by a long shot, but sometimes it does get inconvenient. When it gets hot out and the hair is past his armpits, it’s the absolute worst. All the same, he enjoys it being long enough to tie up.

“Slightly above my shoulder?” Crowley suggests. “I’m thinking a bit like the Beatles?”

“Ah, of course,” says Aziraphale as though he knows the music scene and understands what Crowley means entirely. “You’re not taking about John Lennon, are you?”

“Think Paul McCartney on Abbey Road. But not that exactly.” Crowley gestured with his hands to show around where he wants his hair to stop. “Is that alright?”

“It’s your hair,” Aziraphale says.

“But I want you to like it.”

“I believe I’ve liked every way you’ve ever worn your hair.”

“Even the goatee during Elizabethan times?”

Aziraphale squints at him a little. “Yes. Not as much as I liked others, though.”

“You hated it, didn’t you?” Crowley grins. “You can say it. It was your least favourite do, wasn’t it?”

“… you’ve had better.”

Crowley scoffs playfully. “Admit it.”

“My dear, I have loved every single part of you over these millennia,” says Aziraphale with a tone that is far too serious for the joking manner Crowley thought they were indulging in. “You know that, right? And that I will love you for six millennia more, in new ways, yes? That each day I find new things to love about you, even after all this time?”

Crowley’s throat is very dry suddenly. “That’s a lot to live up to.”

“Not at all,” says the angel. “Just continue as you are.”

Crowley swallows.

There’s pressure in that statement but not in his lungs and he’s not sure what to make of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just REALLY want to touch David Tennant's hair ... and it totally shows.


	66. Chapter 66

They’re watching an episode of _Doctor Who_ (because what else is on the telly in the UK?) when it happens.

Aziraphale has started exploring touch. He lets his hands wander more than they did before around Crowley. It’s one of those weirder episodes, the kind that makes the angel wonder what exactly the producer had in mind when the Doctor and Rose keep running through doors and screaming while the onlooker, (main narrator for the episode) watches in confusion.

When they watch episodes like this, Aziraphale often lets his arm go around the demon in a lax way, that denotes no possession or pull for him to go closer than he’s comfortable. It’s not snuggling, or cuddling, it’s just … existing next to each other. Able to feel the heat of another person’s body in a comforting way that grounds him.

Either way, as they watch, Aziraphale lets his fingers trace small patterns on Crowley’s arm. His touch is light, barely there, but suddenly, the demon tenses.

“Er.”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale turns to the redhead. “Are you alright?”

“Uh …” Crowley pulls away slightly from him. He mumbles something incoherent.

“What?”

“Ima’ick.ish.”

“I can’t understand you when you talk like that, my boy.”

“I’m ticklish, alright?”

Aziraphale blinks.

Crowley, pressumably, blinks beneath his sunglasses.

“Er. Yeah. So. Could you not?”

Aziraphale grins.

“No.”

“But—”

“I’m saying no! We said no is all it takes to end something, yeah?”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale admits. “But this isn’t harmful. Much. Besides, you have a wonderful laugh.”

Crowley curls up into himself. “… do not.”

He’s pouting. The Original Tempter is pouting.

Aziraphale truly feels Blessed at times like these.

“Alright. I won’t do anything.”

“Thank you.”

“Though, I can’t be held accountable for any accidents.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering, they're watching Love & Monsters, the weirdest fucking episode ever.


	67. Chapter 67

Crowley never knows what to do with his hands when he kisses Aziraphale for long periods of time.

To hold his face feels like he’s forcing him to stay at a certain angle, which the demon knows isn’t always a great thing for one’s neck. To put it on his chest feels like he’s trying to push him away, which is the last thing he wants.

Currently, Aziraphale’s got a hand in his hair. Crowley would purr, if he could. His glasses are long since abandoned, since they discovered Aziraphale’s fingers just made them bump and the feeling of glass pressing against one’s skin is not the most pleasant sensation. Crowley’s got one hand on his shoulder, so he lets it travel down his arm and intertwines their fingers.

With his spare hand, he grips Aziraphale’s waist. He rubs his thumb against his hip bone, feels the pleasant weight of his companion. His thumb snakes underneath a layer of clothing by accident and suddenly, Aziraphale’s pulled away.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” says the angel, lying through his fucking teeth.

“I won’t know what’s upset you unless you tell me.”

“I’m not upset.”

Crowley frowns. “Then why are you shying away from me?” He turns his eyes towards the ground. “Is it my eyes? I can put my glasses back.”

“No!” the answer is so hurried and rushed, it’s meant to be reassuring, but there’s a panic in it that tells him maybe his eyes are a conversation they need to have at some point. He shelves it for another day though.

“Then what is it? This doesn’t work unless we communicate. You said it yourself.”

Aziraphale bites his bottom lip. Crowley could bite it for him, if he’d just tell him what’s wrong.

“I just … don’t like being touched … _there_.”

“There?”

“Near my … stomach.”

Crowley’s eyes flash dangerously. “Did some fuckface say something to you?”

“What? No, it’s just …” Aziraphale shifts on the oriental rug. “I’m not comfortable with it. I guess. I mean, it’s nothing against you, you know I trust you implicitly, my dear, but … well, I have my own … issues.”

_“While I know my physical form is not … well, it’s not what you’re attracted to …”_

“I’ll kill ‘em.”

“What?”

“Whoever the fuck said that shit to you, I’ll kill ‘em.”

Aziraphale frowns in an adorable way that would delight Crowley, if he wasn’t so focused on finding out who had fed the beautiful angel lies. The only thing that can override his love for Aziraphale is his need to protect him.

“No one said anything—”

“Bullshit. Was it Gabriel? I bet it fucking was.”

_Good thing I’m already Fallen, cause I’m sure killing an archangel is a punishable offence._

“Crowley, I don’t need you to go marching into Heaven defending my honour.”

“Of course you don’t _need_ me to. I _want to_.”

Aziraphale’s face takes on that soft quality, the one that makes Crowley’s breath catch in his throat a little and his mind question how he got such an etherial being to direct such a gaze onto _him_. And what he can do to make it keep happening.

“Fine. But come with me.”

Crowley takes Aziraphale by the hand and leads him into the demon’s bedroom, closing the door.

“While I understand we’ve made an Effort, and are working towards, er, doing … well, _that_ , I’m not sure—”

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Crowley says bluntly. “That’s not what this is.” He stands Aziraphale in front of the full length mirror right behind his bedroom door. Crowley takes his position behind him, placing his hands on the angel’s wrists, not quite sure how he feels about holding hands at this moment. “Tell me what you see.”

Aziraphale’s mouth slants itself, not quite into a frown, but the confusion is clear. “What?”

“What do you see?”

“Us.”

A part of Crowley preens at that. There are so many answers to that simple question. An angel and a demon. The Irredeemable and the Favoured. A blond and a redhead. Friends. Lovers.

 _Us_ is the best possible answer.

“Want to know what I see?” he asks, running his hands up and down Aziraphale’s arms in a motion he hopes is as comforting to feel for Aziraphale as it is for him. “I see the Guardian of the Eastern Gate. I see strength incarnate.” It feels weird to say these things aloud, to put words to these thoughts of his that he thought he could show through action alone. As awkward as it makes him feel, he forces them out because this isn’t about him. He wants Aziraphale to _understand_. “I see justice and a lover of books and knowledge. I see _you_ , Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale twists in his position, ever so slightly so he can look at Crowley. “And what do you think about what you see?”

“I think, no, I _know_ , that this is the greatest thing Heaven has ever created.”

Aziraphale’s ears are turning pink. The flush is on his cheeks too, and it’s starting to make it’s way to his neck. “You’re a flatterer.”

“I’m a demon. I don’t flatter.”

Aziraphale looks back at the mirror. “I just … I don’t feel comfortable with my body, I suppose. And I don't want you to see that. To see something that would … well, would disrupt _this_.”

He means “us”.

Crowley wonders what it’ll take to convince Aziraphale that nothing ever could.

“You’re insecure,” Crowley says softly. “And I’m not going to tell you you’re wrong, even though you’re certainly not right. But everyone is insecure.”

“Even you?”

Crowley laughs self-deprecatingly. “Oh, especially me. But this isn’t about me. Not right now.” He reaches his pinky out to Aziraphale’s hand, and almost sighs in satisfaction when Aziraphale interlaces his own pinky with his. “You panicked. You thought I was going to take off your clothing, didn’t you?”

Aziraphale’s blushing, more of embarrassment than from anything else. “Er, I may have … suspected.”

“I wasn’t. Because we hadn’t talked about it. I’m not going to do anything unless you tell me to. Unless you _want_ me to.” Crowley rests his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder and looks at them in the mirror.

What a perfect picture.

“I want you to talk to me about these things. You’re all about communication. We want this to work, yes? Then it takes work. We have to put the hours in. You are allowed to be insecure. You are allowed to have doubts. But I can’t help you unless you tell me them. No more denying that shit, okay?”

Aziraphale’s gaze in the mirror is clearly concentrated on their interlocked pinkies.

“I’m not used to this.”

“You think I am? You saw how I reacted to my er … morning situation. You told me to talk to you about this stuff, and so I’m telling you the same. It goes both ways. _Our_ side means you are never alone. You’re _supposed_ to lean on me.”

“I’m … it’s just that I’m embarrassed.”

“So am I. But c’mon. It’s me.” Crowley locks eyes with Aziraphale through the mirror. “I won’t judge you. The same way I know you won’t judge me. Being embarrassed is normal. We’re allowed that. It’s not that because we know each other, embarrassment or fear of embarrassment goes away. It’s that we trust each other not to change our minds just because the other is an idiot sometimes.”

“I can try.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Aziraphale interlaces their fingers entirely. “When did you get so wise?”

“It’s been hiding inside of me for eons.”

He gets a light peck on the forehead for his remark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The context Crowley takes the quote from is actually Aziraphale referring to the fact that bodies don't really matter, not about what his body actually looks like, but I couldn't find a part where Aziraphale was straight up mean about himself (because he's beautiful, obviously).


	68. Chapter 68

“I was wondering if I could try something?”

Crowley blinks. Clearly, he’s unused to these words coming from Aziraphale of all people.

“Sure.”

“You don’t have to say yes,” the angel reminds him gently. His hands are trembling, he’s not sure how he’s steady on his feet, or if he even is, to be honest. But Crowley has always been the brave one, striving forward, and it’s his turn now.

“No, I want to. Yes. Green. Go. Whatever it’ll take.” The demon grins at him with a twinkle in his eye visible through the tinted lenses. “I trust you.”

More than anything, that’s what propels Aziraphale forward.

He begins by kissing Crowley’s mouth, and that grin that sends butterflies fluttering in his stomach. A part of him wondered if he’d ever get bored of kissing, or being kissed, since compared to the other things they’ve agreed on doing, it’s hardly the most exciting, but Crowley yields under his touch every time and it’s like sinking into a comfortable mattress. It’s delightful in ways that he can’t voice, nor would he want to. It feels like a secret sensation just for them.

Then, he changes things.

He peppers kisses along Crowley’s chin and cheek, his grip on the demon’s waist tightening as he tries to build up the nerve for what he wants to do.

Crowley is patient the entire time, obliging him and tilting his head at angles to make it easier for him. He chuckles softly and Aziraphale can feel the reverberations against his own body, giving him strength.

The angel presses a kiss to the demon’s neck.

Crowley lets out a sudden gasp at the action.

“Sorry—”

“No, not a bad thing,” Crowley corrects him quickly. “Just surprising.”

“Are you sure?”

Crowley places a hand gently on the back of the angel’s head and angles him back at his neck. “I’m sure. Just wasn’t expecting it. You can go back to it, if you’d like.”

Aziraphale lets his lips press against Crowley’s skin. Smells him, the combination of earth and cologne and Crowley that is as good as the wafting of any delicious treat. Hesitantly, he presses another kiss on the demon’s throat.

“Another,” Crowley encourages him gently. “If you want,”

Aziraphale wants.

“Another,” says the Original Tempter, his hand coming to rest on the nape of Aziraphale’s neck, gently guiding him. The angel follows with an eagerness that perhaps would frighten him if he didn’t trust Crowley as much as he does.

And then Aziraphale licks his lips and sucks.

Crowley moans.

It’s cut off very quickly by himself, when he seems to realize what he’s done.

“Erm.”

“It’s alright, darling.”

“Darling?” Crowley echoes. “What happened to dear?”

“You can be dear and darling,” Aziraphale says, gently pressing his lips against Crowley’s Adam’s apple. “You’re my Crowley, after all.”

“Sounds awfully possessive, sweetheart.”

Aziraphale detaches himself from Crowley’s neck to raise an eyebrow at him. “Sweetheart?”

“You don’t like it?” Crowley asks with playfulness but Aziraphale sees the worry he tries to hide as well.

“No complaints, love.”

This close to the demon, Aziraphale can see his slotted pupils. They narrow, and turn even thinner. Crowley licks his lips. “I’m love then, eh?”

“Ah, well, I was just thinking, since we’re trying out new names.”

“Crowley, dear, darling, love … that’s a lot of hats.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“As will you, love.”


	69. Chapter 69

Crowley wakes up to Aziraphale’s panicked eyes.

At first, he thinks the angel has had a nightmare. One of the reoccurring ones where the angels have been watching them in the South Downs and prepare to punish him for his transgressions. Or the one where he’s in Hell, except he’s on trial as himself and not Crowley. But there’s something about the frantic look in his eyes that denotes something different.

“Wha’ going on?” asks Crowley, still groggy from sleep as much as he’d like to suddenly be vigil. As an active indulger of sloth, this is the price he must pay.

“Crowley, I think I’m disincorporating!”

Crowley blinks.

It takes his brain a few seconds to get the message, and then he’s up in bed and grabbing Aziraphale’s shoulders and trying to see where the damage is. There’s no guarantee his angel will come back to him properly, or at all, if he gets discorporated. Heaven and Hell are ignoring them so long as they don’t show up on their doorstep. He doesn’t dare to think what they’d do with Aziraphale if he had no choice but to reappear in front of them,

“What’s going on? Where does it hurt?” Is there anything I can do? goes unsaid, but is projected from his face and all his mannerisms.

“I—” Aziraphale’s voice cuts off and turns into a _sound_. One Crowley has never heard before, that triggers something inside of him, because now he’s got a sort of problem er … _downstairs_ , as it were, when this is clearly not the time.

Aziraphale stills, his entire body seeming to go slack.

Crowley blinks.

The immediate urgency seems to have disappeared, not that he understands why.

“Er.”

“Er.”

The two of them look at each other. Then Crowley feels it. There’s a dampness to the bed.

Aziraphale’s cheeks pink. “I er… I believe I may have just … orgasmed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, because these 2 move very slowly, I couldn't have them fuck at chapter 69. This is my apology? Things are OFFICIALLY getting steamy.
> 
> Also, if anyone thinks this is dumb, they haven't read the book when these 2 idiots legitimately thought they were DYING from paintballs.


	70. Chapter 70

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would've normally had this lined up to go last night and just pressed post in a sleepy haze, but I got lazy.

The two for them lie in bed silently.

Aziraphale would very much like to die of embarrassment now. To confuse climaxing in pleasure with disincorporation is quite a mistake to make. A rather foolish, and childish one, regardless of its adult subject matter.

“So … not dying,” says Crowley after a moment.

“Um, no.”

“Just … cumming.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “What?”

“Climaxing? Shooting a load? Er, orgasming.”

“Ah. Well, yes.” Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably. They ought to clean the sheets. The spot where he … er… well, it’s getting sticky. “It’s a very overwhelming experience, to be fair. You should know.”

“I should?” The demon’s cheeks are making a valiant attempt to colour themselves like his hair. Aziraphale commends them.

“Well, you had the er, dream.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t conscious. I didn’t feel it.”

“Oh.”

The two of them sit in silence once more.

Finally, Crowley clears his throat.

“This isn’t going to get any less awkward the more we pussyfoot around it. So you had an orgasm. Congratulations. Er, I think, I mean, it was good, yes?”

“Well, yes.”

“Good. I’m … happy for you?” Crowley’s nose crinkles. “That was a bad thing to say. It’s true, but bad. Um… so I think we have to stop being all ‘we’ll do it someday’ about this making an Effort.”

“What?” Aziraphale is not ready to go that far, and they’re taking it at their own pace, of course, he’s sure if he voiced his concerns, Crowley would understand, but it feels embarrassing to say them aloud.

“I’m not saying we should like, pencil it into a calendar or anything,” Crowley says quickly. “I just meant it’s a thing we’re clearly working towards, at least once. Well, probably twice. Since we’re er … male bodied, and it’d make sense for us to both erm… top.”

“Top?”

“Penetrate,”

“Ah.”

“Yes.” Crowley’s entire face is trying to become a tomato. “So I figure this means we should … explore our bodies a bit. Figure out what we like, what we don’t like. Same way we’ve been approaching the whole intimacy thing. One step at a time. We wouldn’t go from zero to a hundred, that’d be ill advised.”

“Ah. Right.” Aziraphale stares at the ceiling in contemplation of how exactly he got to this point in his eternal existence. “Can I at least Miracle away the sperm?”

“The cum?”

The angel’s nose crinkles. “That doesn’t make any sense. If you call the action cumming, and pressumably the present tense is to cum, then why would you also call the fluid cum?”

“Fuck if I know, it’s just what humans do. Terrible language, as we’ve been over.” Crowley shifts a little in the bed. “Yes, go ahead. Miracle away the _sperm_.”

“Now you’re just being contrary.”

“To be more accurate, I’m quite sure it’s semen,” the demon reflects. “I mean, the sperm is the little bits of DNA that wiggle around inside the liquid, yes? So then the entire concoction is semen, right?”

“I suppose. Why are we taking about this?”

“So we can avoid talking about the whole Effort thing we’ve decided to undertake.”

“Ah.”

Aziraphale Miracles away the semen.

“Great. Well then, we can’t have this conversation lying in bed. Seems weird.”

“Really?” Crowley hums noncommittally. “I think it’s the best place. Very fitting, no?”

“Crowley.”

“Alright. Meet you in the kitchen?”

“Indeed.”

Aziraphale gets out of the bed, somehow calmer despite everything knowing that they will have the discussion. It’ll be awkward, and awfully embarrassing, but it’s _Crowley_. And the demon was right; he trusts him not to think differently of the angel once the talk is finished.

Besides, it’s sort of … exciting, to turn this whole “making an Effort” into a more concrete thing.


	71. Chapter 71

Crowley is panicking. Just a little bit, mind you.

Aziraphale has been so smart and appropriate when addressing the whole Effort issue, and he’s been tailing along, wanting it, but all the same being terribly embarrassed to talk about it. It’s his turn to take the reins and show some maturity. He’s over several millennia old, he should be able to handle this.

The demon walks into the kitchen to see Aziraphale seated at the table with a cup of cocoa, all put together as though he hadn’t just climaxed in his bed a few minutes ago.

He can’t handle this.

 _No, calm down. This is Aziraphale. You are safe here_.

Crowley thanks his own mind for being the sensible one, and batters down the hatches to have this talk.

Taking out a chair and spinning it around, Crowley sits with the back of the chair facing the table. He often sits this way as a preference, but now he does it as though the extra matter between himself and the angel will act as some sort of shield.

“So.”

“So.”

Fuck, this is awful.

“We’re going to fuck, yes? At some point?” Crowley asks, eyeing Aziraphale. “Not that I’m saying that as like a, demand that we have sex. More as like, a statement. For you to deny or validate. And whatever you say now, doesn’t have to apply in the future, because as much as we talk about consent, we haven’t really talked about withdrawing consent either, and how important that is, and that it can be withdrawn at any point either party chooses to—”

“Party?” repeats Aziraphale. “You make it sound like a contract.”

“It sort of is.” The demon shrugs. “But okay, this conversation is going to assume that at some point in the future, we are definitely going to have sex. But also, let me preface it by saying that like, you can also say no at any point. Like, it’s just good to have a plan _should_ it happen.”

“Right.” There’s something amused in the angel’s tone, but it’s not dismissive or mean spirited so Crowley lets it slide. “You mentioned twice?”

“Yes. I just figured … well, we’d want to try it all, yeah? Assuming we like the first bits. The non-penetration bits. Because that’s also sex, you know. Some people don’t think it is, but I would hardily disagree.”

“Right. So different sex acts would, by your definition, involve anything relating to genitalia, I’m assuming? Because we _haven’t_ had sex yet.”

“You say that like I could’ve tricked you into sex without you knowing,” Crowley scoffs. “Which I would never do, obviously. But anyway, yes. I mean blowjobs, er, fellatio, and like, masturbation and er … fingering? Insertion of things other than the penis? Also count.”

“So what would the next step be? Given the pace we’re going at, I mean.”

Crowley’s brow furrows. “Erm. Masturbation? I guess? Figuring out what we like. I mean, it’s easy for us to be all cautious and like ‘tell me what you like and don’t like’, but it’s easier for me to say I don’t enjoy something than to know if I _like_ it. Fuck, you thought you were _disincorporating_.”

Aziraphale flushes a lovely pink at the reminder.

The space between them is small, just a table, but it feels like a thousand yards.

Crowley places his hand on the table. An offering.

Aziraphale takes it.

Crowley sort of regrets his positioning, given that now his arm hurts a bit, but it’s worth it.

“So we should, what? Masturbate?”

“On our own time. Separately from each other. You know. To figure out what it is we enjoy, without like, the pressure to please the other.”

“Right. So should we do that?”

“What, like right now?”

“I mean, no time like the present, no?”

Crowley chuckles. It’s so strange to think about time, considering it has very little meaning to a being such as him. “I think we’ve had excitement for one morning. But soon.”

“Soon,” Aziraphale echoes distantly. “Okay.”


	72. Chapter 72

“You’re tense.”

Aziraphale pauses just before his lips brush against the demon’s. “No I’m not.”

“No use lying to the one who _invented it_ , alright?” Crowley says. “I can tell you’re tense. Having second thoughts?”

“About what?”

“Anything. Anything at all.”

It’s not a challenge. It’s not meant to bait him into acting a certain way. It’s sincere, in a way that Aziraphale doubts other demons ever are. Crowley _oozes_ sincerity, much as he tries to deny it.

The angel interlaces their fingers together. “No, I just …”

“You’re thinking too much. If you’re going to get all lost in your head, take me with you. What’s troubling you?”

“I was just …” Aziraphale bites his bottom lip. “I was just thinking about … how I kissed you before.”

“When you kissed my neck?”

His cheeks darken. “Yes.”

“You don’t have to do that again, if you don’t want to.” Crowley interlaces their fingers. He seems to find some sort of joy in the simplicity of that connection. Aziraphale is certainly not going to protest. “Just because we’ve done it once, doesn’t mean we ever have to do it again. I know we’ve been doing that recently, what with the increase in kissing and things, especially since we decided on making an Effort, but it’s …” Crowley tilts his head, as though he’s ruminating on something. “I got it. Think of it as a buffet.”

“A buffet?”

“Yes. Our intimacy is a buffet. We discuss what we will lay out for consumption, and then it’s there. As an _option_ , not an obligation. That way, we can bring up new things, and so they’ve been added to the buffet menu, but they don’t _have_ to be taken up. So like, because we’ve discussed you kissing my neck, you _could_ kiss my neck again, if you wanted, without prompting, or asking permission, because it’s on display at the buffet, but you don’t _have_ to do it either. Does that make sense?”

In some convoluted way, it sort of does.

“Right then. Okay.” Aziraphale looks at the delicate fingers that make up Crowley’s hand. “I was also thinking about how we’d … er, do this. The sex.”

Crowley chuckles. “I think it’s pretty self-explanatory, no? I mean, aside from when we discuss who will top first.”

Aziraphale wrinkles his nose. “I don’t like that term. Top doesn’t actually _mean_ anything when it comes to sex. It implies being physically over someone, but you don’t just stay stationary when you have sex, no? So, technically, it’s not really an appropriate term.”

“Alright. Who will penetrate first.”

“We’re not nearly there yet, but I meant how as in … well, if we’d do this the human way, or with … you know … _Miracles_. Since we could certainly make it easier that way.”

Crowley hums, and pulls Aziraphale closer by their joined hands. It’s something to do with his body while he turns over the angel’s proposition.

“Would it make you more comfortable if we used Miracles? I don’t have a problem with it.”

“But?”

“But,” Crowley admits, “I was thinking it’s such a _human_ thing to do. And sometimes the best way to do something is the old-fashioned way. At least at first.” He bites his lip. “I mean … I kind of want that. The fear and excitement and uncertainty. Humans don’t have an easy way out to make the process any easier or better for them. They just … throw themselves into it, and take the best precautions they can. Feels like cheating if we were to like, dampen a part of the experience.”

Aziraphale nods with a light grin. “I’m glad we agree, then.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course.”

Crowley grins, and it’s blinding and beautiful.

“So we’ve decided. No Miracles.”

“No Miracles.”


	73. Chapter 73

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DID SOMEONE SAY DEMISEXUAL CROWLEY?

Crowley closes his bedroom door and sits on his bed.

So.

Masturbation.

Wanking.

Jerking off.

The ol’ pull and tug, which sounds unnecessarily violent.

How does one do it?

The time has come for their little, er, experimentation.

He’s not hard, not remotely aroused, and that’s not a thing he can Miracle to make things easier. Besides, they agreed they’re doing this the human way. So instead he tries to think of “sexy things”.

He’s seen enough orgies to have material.

He remembers Ancient Greece and the symposiums, where men would get blowjobs while discussing the afterlife with a surprising straight face. He remembers the lavish parties of that Pope, the one with the mistress he pretended was his niece. He recalls the sex parties Benjamin Franklin got into when he was in France.

He opens his eyes.

His dick is limp.

There was always something detached about the orgies, anyway. It was full of strangers, and he never participated in them, unless lightly nudging someone into copulating with someone they would’ve never thought of on their own counts. He’s always been on the sidelines, never engaged, watched like he was at a very R rated zoo in some ways.

So instead he thinks of Aziraphale.

He thinks of the angel’s warm voice, and his breath in Crowley’s ear, not necessarily saying anything dirty or sensual, just sharing something for only his ears. A shiver goes down his back at the intimacy of such a moment.

He thinks of Aziraphale’s warm body, leaning back against that soft support that holds more strength than one would think. He closes his eyes and can imagine his body enveloped by the angel, just holding him. Comforting him. Protecting him from anything and everything.

Oh.

Something’s happening.

So he keeps thinking.

He imagines those times they’re on the couch, this time wrapped around each other in a new way. Instead of an arm draped around his shoulder, he’s closer, more in the angel’s space. Imagines that he’d play with his hair lightly, just running his fingers through his strands, his nails lightly scrapping his scalp. He imagines Aziraphale saying his name softly, in that affectionate way that makes his stomach flip a little.

He thinks of the sounds the angel makes when he’s had a good meal. Imagines that breathless sound forming his own name. He thinks of the way the angel looks at him sometimes, when he’s particularly fond.

_My dear boy._

_My Crowley._

_My._

_Mine._

He’s moving his hand now, up and down his cock at a steady pace that’s almost detached from his thoughts. He’s not thinking about it so much as he’s letting his body override his judgement. Lets his hand do what it thinks it should. Tightens his grip when he thinks of that little sound Aziraphale makes when Crowley’s kiss catches him off guard.

He’s … leaking? There’s a fluid at the top of his dick, and it’s starting to accumulate. He needs more liquid than this though so he spits into his hand and continues, thinking of Aziraphale’s eyes and his warm smile and the sounds he makes when he’s pleased.

He thinks of the way he holds Crowley so tightly when they kiss. Not for fear he’ll disappear, but to ground himself. That little gasp he makes when they part before he remembers they don’t really need to breathe. He thinks of the gleam the angel gets in his eyes when he wants to be mischievous. The way it excites him and thrills him and he thanks Her for letting him have this. Letting him be loved, letting him be loved by Aziraphale.

A sound punches it’s way out of his gut, and the sound of his hand against his skin is weird and one he’s unfamiliar with but the wetness at his tip keeps growing so he adds it to his palm and then his hips buck up against his will, and he suddenly can see Aziraphale in his mind, watching him with bright eyes and an encouraging smile and —

“Oh, fuck!”

It really _does_ feel like disincorporating, in some ways. He’s got to catch his breath, and maybe he _does_ need to breathe, and it’s thrown off at times like this because his heart is trying to jump out of his chest. He’s tired, which is weird because he’s quite sure he did basically nothing, but he feels boneless and satisfied in a way that’s not better than hearing the angel read to him, just different.

He sinks into his mattress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, I'm shitty at smut.


	74. Chapter 74

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never realized how much my smut depends on being able to use crude words until I wrote Aziraphale's POV of sex, and went "well he won't say fuck, or cock, and dick is too slang-y so I guess we're going with this ..."

Aziraphale is quite sure the demon doesn’t know he can hear him.

He’s not sure if it’s because the redhead is truly being loud, if the walls are thin, or he’s just become attuned to his partner after so many years, but nevertheless, he can _hear Crowley masturbating._

And his body is reacting.

There’s something about his voice, about its pitch and tone, the way sounds come out of it because what he’s hearing is in no way discernible to be words. It’s pants and groans and moans which have Aziraphale gripping himself as though somehow that’ll keep him grounded.

Instead it only excites him further.

Closing his eyes, the angel lets the sounds surround him, envelop him in their entirety. He works his member more from a distant memory of having seen it in the past than knowing how to do it himself. His hips thrust up into his hand and Crowley’s voice becomes the only thing that’s real.

His existence is tethered by the demon, whether his companion knows it or not, but the fact of the matter is that something inside of him _snaps_ when he hears Crowley let out a hissed out cuss.

He’s spilling into his hand much sooner than he thought he would. There are so many things about this situation to be embarrassed about, how long he lasted is not the most pressing issue. Instead, he wipes away the evidence and straightens himself in the mirror.

They’re going to have to talk about this, obviously, but he’s starting to see why Crowley had reservations about being so open about this aspect of their relationship. It’s not going to stop him from plunging forward, but he’ll certainly be more red faced than he anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I thought it would be smart to give you a list to know what to expect once we get into the Effort shit. Everything is consensual, and discussed before hand so there's no surprises but I guess here's a listed preview of some things that'll be coming (low-key just me writing all my fave kinks):  
> Service Top Crowley (is there any other kind of Top Crowley?)  
> Service Top Aziraphale   
> Gentle Dom Aziraphale (might do some Gentle Dom Crowley, but Aziraphale is definitely doing some shit)  
> Blowjobs  
> Handjobs  
> Crowley's tongue (he can unhinge his jaw. THE POSSIBILITIES)  
> Fingering  
> Light bondage  
> Dirty talk (Crowley style)  
> Dirty talk (Aziraphale style)  
> (yes there's a difference)  
> Praise kink (Crowley is just ... he's a puddle)  
> Blindfolds  
> Food kink  
> Edging  
> Prostate milking  
> Overstimulation (very light)  
> Multiple orgasms  
> Hair pulling  
> Possessive language (lovingly)  
> Mirror sex  
> Shibari  
> Phone sex  
> Body worship  
> Toys  
> If it's not clear, switching.   
> Lots of this stuff SOUNDS sexy, but it's going to be awkward as well. Charming and endearing, but awkward. They'll get better at it. When there is some BDSM, it's not proper BDSM etiquette, but its not a promotion of BAD etiquette (unlike basically every other portrayal of BDSM)  
> So yeah. That's what my general outline looks like right now.


	75. Chapter 75

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley got ... weird on me. So this chapter is kinda all over?

He can’t look Aziraphale in the eye.

This is way worse than an other embarrassment. He’s not sure how he can face him, so he just sort of … skirts around him. Stays in his bedroom till an ungodly time when he’s sure Aziraphale has left, sneaks food into his pockets like he’s a squatter in his own cottage.

Currently, he’s hoarding Artemis.

They make pleasant purring sounds, which relaxes him. There’s probably some academic paper about the benefits of purring,and if there isn’t, Crowley, without any qualifications, is totally ready to write one.

There’s a knock on his bedroom door.

Crowley (very dignifiedly) collapses onto the floor with a thud that no one could ignore. His glasses slide underneath his bed. Artemis meows, and begins pawing at the door to get out, the traitor.

“Crowley?”

The demon sighs, wondering if it’s worth it to pick himself up from the heap he’s become on the floor. “It’s open.”

Aziraphale pushes the door open, and instantly meets Crowley’s gaze, like he just _knew_ the demon wouldn’t bother sitting up. He doesn’t even bother looking straight ahead of him. He knows Crowley too well to doubt that once he’s hit a low, he’s bound to stay there.

“You’re being weird again.”

“I’m always weird, angel.”

The sigh is not so much one of exasperation as it is of fondness. The blond crouches to the ground to be at eye-level, before deciding better, and neatly folds his legs underneath him, taking a seat.

“This is because of the masturbation, isn’t it?”

“Ngk.”

“Crowley, if this changes things between us, then I don't want to make the Effort,” Aziraphale says. “If sex is going to ruin us, then we can do without it. Are you pushing ahead because you think I want it that badly? Because I assure you, I do not.”

“I just …” Crowley can’t meet his gaze, instead staring resolutely at the hardwood floor. Maybe he should invest in a carpet. Would make those times he falls out of bed much better on his ancient back. “It’s _weird_. How can you act like it’s not?”

“I _know_ it’s odd,” Aziraphale says kindly. “But I trust you to be there for me. I trust that the benefits will outweigh the initial discomfort.”

“It’s not you. I mean, I liked it.” Crowley’s cheeks darken, but Aziraphale is looking at him so earnestly, nodding in encouragement, so he continues on despite his desire to discorporate. “It was good, and all, but I just … it feels disrespectful? To pretend we’re equals when I’ve done _that_. I disrespected you, in my mind, and then to touch you with hands that disrespected you is …. I don’t know. I don’t like it.”

“Crowley …”

The way he says his name, it sounds like a warning. Not the kind of warning that one hears when they’re in trouble. In fact, if it were anyone but the demon, it wouldn’t be perceived as a warning at all. But the thing is, this is the tone Aziraphale takes when he’s about to say something …. _nice_.

“That is very …” He bites his lip, like he knows if he tries to say something deep or respectful to him, Crowley will instantly recoil. “Thoughtful,” he settles on, which still hurts. (If by hurts, causes a weird twinge in the demon’s chest that makes him feel a little hot, a little confused, but mostly just … content.)

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

“Not whatever.”

Well, that’s a new tone. It’s firmer than what he’s used to. It also stirs some pain in him. (If pain is to say, a strange warmth in his stomach that tugs at his insides, a dizziness in the head that’s not unpleasant.)

Aziraphale reaches out and places a hand on Crowley’s cheek. He feels the pads of his fingers, each like a brand, and the idea of marking … well, that’s not a bad idea at all. He quite likes it, if he’s being honest.

“I love you.”

This feels like more than a bumbled thing that sort of slipped out at a bad time. That was _weeks_ ago. Said now, on the floor of his bedroom, Crowley wants to crawl out of his own skin, partially from discomfort, having spent eternities trying to avoid this much sentiment, while another part of him wants to (and does) lean into the angel’s touch.

“I love you too, Aziraphale,” he says. This is not said because it is the expected response. It’s not said in the same spirit that people who are thanked reply “no problem” or “your welcome”, on instinct because it's been drilled into them socially. This is a response that comes from the heart other demons claim not to have. It comes from the overwhelming feeling in his chest that sometimes feels too heavy and yet light to contain inside his body.

“I am touching you right now, Crowley, because I want to.” Each word sounds purposeful, each word hits him a little differently with the intensity of the angel’s gaze on him. He moves a little closer, scoots his body into Crowley’s personal bubble which has no place existing when the angel could be this close to him always.

“I am touching you because no part of you is wrong, and even if it was, I wouldn’t care.” The demon is finding it hard to breathe, a constricting feeling swelling in his chest. “I do this because I have affection for you. I do this because I want to. And I do this, because you _deserve it_.”

A sound escapes his throat, one that he’s not sure how to name, but it sounds like a whine, maybe a bit like a sob. The hand on his cheek rises, presses against the tattoo, traces it slowly with manicured nails.

“Do you understand?”

Crowley swallows. It’s harder than normal.

“I …”

Aziraphale’s other hand reaches out, touches Crowley’s own. He almost flinches back, but this is his angel. He won’t hurt him, so instead he lets their fingers interlace. Stares at their interlocked hands in wonder.

“See? Nothing bad has happened. You can touch me, if you want to.” Aziraphale presses his forehead against Crowley’s. “Do you want to touch me?”

“Yes.”

It’s quiet, barely a breath, but in it contains everything.

Crowley wants to touch Aziraphale. He wants to touch his neck, and his face. He wants to put his hand on his arm, or pull him by the elbow. He wants to use his shoulder when he’s tired, and he wants to brush fingertips when passing the champagne. He wants to pat his knee when he sits cross-legged, wants to feel the warmth of his body near him, just to know he’s _existing in the same space_. He wants to wrap scarves around the angel when it’s cold in the winter, and held him take off his jacket when they get back from a day out. He wants to run his fingers through his hair, and feel the texture of the skin on his back when it hurts him. He wants to enumerate and memorize every freckle on his body. He wants to wash away the grime of the day for him, wants to learn how he reacts to every part of him being touched. Wants to pay attention to every single atom that makes up his being, and know it as intimately as he knows his own. He wants to learn what things make Aziraphale’s toes curl, and what makes his lips thin.

He wants to know the girth of Azirphale’s cock, wants to know the pressure of it on his tongue. Wants to know what the insides of him feel like, wants to see how he arches in pleasure. Wants to learn every spot he’s ticklish, wants to run his tongue along his earlobe. He wants to see where he’s sensitive, where to touch to make him sigh, and where he’ll sing. He wants those manicured fingernails to press into his skin so tight, they leave a permanent imprint so that everyone will know he belongs to his angel.

He wants the domestic intimacy of sharing the same pencil to do the crossword, and the sexual intimacy of using the same towel to clear away cum.

“I touched myself thinking of you,” Aziraphale says, and his cheeks pink.

Crowley swallows audibly. He watches Aziraphale’s eyes trace the movement of his Adam’s apple. They’re so close, he could count his eyelashes. Those fingers are back down, now on the back of his neck, guiding him closer.

“I’m touching you now. Does it feel dirty? Do _you_ feel dirty, knowing that I used this body, this hand, to touch myself?”

Crowley shakes his head ever so slightly, not wanting to part where their foreheads are united.

“I want to you to say it, darling. I want to hear you tell me that just because I touched myself with this hand of mine, does not make me dirty.”

“Fuck, of course it doesn’t,” Crowley chokes out.

Aziraphale smiles, and it’s blinding. “Then doesn’t the same apply to you?”

“But I’m a _demon_.”

“And I am an angel.”

Aziraphale’s other hand comes to his neck, and he gently makes Crowley look him in the eyes. He feels exposed, ripped open and raw in a way shedding never was.

“You are so, so beautiful, love,” Aziraphale whispers, speaking with a sort of wonderment the demon is sure he hasn’t earned. “And so lovely. If you forgive me for my transgressions, why can you not forgive yourself?”

“Unforgivable,” Crowley says as quietly as he can. It feels sacrilegious to speak at a normal volume, and though he’s never been a believer, not since She threw him out, he believes in Aziraphale. “It’s what I am.”

“And yet I forgive you.”

“Your mistake.”

“My _privilege._ ”

Crowley is quite sure he’s going to cry.

Aziraphale seems to sense it before he does. He wraps his hands around the demon, and pulls him close into a hug. He’s surrounded by the angel, by his scent, by his presence, and he cries.

He’s not sure why.

He’s not sad. Not exactly. He’s not angry, or frustrated, the way he is when sometimes his eyes get wet. He’s _calm_. He’s relaxed in a way he doesn’t think he’s ever been in six thousand years, and this is okay. He is crying in Aziraphale’s arms, and the world hasn’t ended.

In fact, he’s quite sure it’s just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: his praise kink is unlocked in a few chapters  
> crowley: tell me I'm good  
> me: well okay.
> 
> Also, the beginning of dom-voice Aziraphale for a split second? This chapter really is all over the place.


	76. Chapter 76

Aziraphale has got to do something about his demon’s self-esteem.

He acts weirdly to compliments, always pauses what he’s doing and flinches, as if the words have physically hit him. He’s unused to them, which is a true shame, because Aziraphale finds him breathtaking when he swaggers into a room like he owns it. If that confidence wasn’t a farce, he wonders how much more stunning he’d be.

There’s nothing he can, not really, until Crowley sees his own worth, but that doesn’t mean he can’t push him along.

He introduces touch back to the demon slowly. Casually. Lets his fingers linger when they break apart at night, letting Crowley head to his own room to sleep. He sits closer, lets the warmth of his body alert Crowley of his presence. He gives the demon his space, but always makes sure his body language conveys openness, a willingness to allow someone else into his bubble.

Slowly, Crowley starts taking these invitations.

Chaste kisses on the cheek (Crowley) and forehead and top of head kisses (Aziraphale) make up the majority of their physical intimacy these days. It doesn’t bother him. Some people would see this as moving backwards.

Azirpahale sees this as them moving in sync.

Crowley begins reciprocation and initiating some touches himself. They’re small, very minor, but wonderful all the same.

They’re at a BBQ when Lyla approaches them.

Aziraphale has had some wine, but not as much as he’d like. He only truly trusts himself to be drunk in Crowley’s presence, and can’t guarantee accidentally Miracles should he get overexcited or feel particularly compassionate. He’s taken to wrapping his arm around Crowley’s waist, to get a better idea of where the demon is at all times. He feels Crowley move whenever he wants to leave, to go off to talk to someone else (often the children), or when he just wants to go home. The feeling of Crowley’s shoulder against his, of his side, reveals so much to the angel.

Lyla is holding out a biscuit, which is terrible because Aziraphale just _knows_ she’s going to offer it to Crowley, and the demon can’t say no to her, but he can’t very well _eat it_. She’s wearing a pretty purple sundress, one that matches the hair ties to her pigtails.

“I thought you deserved something nice,” she says. “Mom and I baked them for school, and we had some leftover.”

She’s confused him, and all it took was that special word.

Deserve.

“Thank you very much, Lyla,” Aziraphale jumps in because Crowley’s been gazing at her for far too long without any movement. He takes the offered biscuit and puts it in his handkerchief. “I think he wants to save it for later,” he explains by her confusion.

Lyla nods, then skips away, but not before telling Crowley to join her in a while for when she and her friends are going to have a game of tag. They need someone to be it, and Crowley has long legs.

Aziraphale guides Crowley to the side, underneath a beautiful canopy of a weeping willow tree, courtesy of Kathy’s green thumb.

“Are you alright, darling?”

“She …” Crowley’s eyebrows crease ever so slightly. “She thinks I’m worthy of things.”

It breaks Aziraphale’s heart that such a simple thing means so much to Crowley. He looks at Aziraphale’s handkerchief mournfully, saddened that he can’t actually eat the offered treat.

“She _knows_ you are,” the angel corrects softly. He pushes back a strand of fiery hair, lets his fingers linger around the shell of the demon’s ear, and presses a soft kiss to his temple.

Crowley’s head moves ever so slightly. Not a nod, or a shake, but a general bob that’s more in acknowledgement and amazement than anything else.

“Do you need some time alone?”

“Maybe a bit.”

Aziraphale hands him the biscuit. “Return it to me before you go off and play.”

Crowley nods.

  
Crowley doesn’t return it.

Instead, he steals some of Aziraphale’s champagne and washes out of the aftertaste of ash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't set out to make Crowley sad over a cookie. But here we are.


	77. Chapter 77

They’re watching the telly, when Crowley brings it up.

“Er. Could I. Um.” He clears his throat, tries to pretend he’s more authoritative than he actually is. Sits up a little straighter, only to slouch again naturally. “CouldIputmyheadinyourlapplease?”

Aziraphale blinks. “Sorry?”

“You’re right, that was dumb. Very idiotic, must have the ol’ cranium looked at—”

“No, I just meant— oh, and now I’ve interrupted you!” Aziraphale’s flustered, a wonderful look on him, really. “I was asking because I wanted you to repeat. I couldn’t understand you when you speak that fast.”

“It was a dumb request,” Crowley says, eyeing a thread in the couch. If he picked at it enough, would it unravel?

“ _I’m not … I’m not from Mars_ ,” says the Doctor.

“You wanted to put your head in my lap, yes?”

The tips of his ears are turning red, trying to match his hair. They’re making a valiant effort, given that his skin can’t _actually_ become crimson.

“… Maybe.”

Aziraphale shifts on the couch, and pats on his thighs softly. “You’re welcome to rest your head here, if you still wish.”

“Oh, I er …” This is embarrassing. This is worse than admitting to wanking or a wet dream. This is utter mortification on a level that only a demon could imagine.

“You don’t have to. Just know that I am open to it. If you choose to do it.”

Crowley gulps, and nods.

He doesn’t put his head in Aziraphale’s lap that day, but he files the conversation away, knowing that he may. When he can get the courage to do so.


	78. Chapter 78

Aziraphale fears for the day the opposition learns of Crowley’s weakness: his hair.

Depending on where the angel touches, the reaction may vary, but it is always surprisingly effective.

For example, when his hand is stroking the top of Crowley’s head, near and around the crown, the demon purrs. His body becomes slack, almost like a noodle, and a sound begins somewhere in the back of his throat that’s too docile to be threatening in any way. He presses closer, like he wants to cuddle (though he’d never admit it). Gliding his nails along the scalp is particularly well received.

Gripping the back of his head, sometimes grabbing fistfuls of his fiery locks is good for controlling him. Steering his mouth in a particular direction, or to generally encourage him to continue whatever line of investigation he is making with his tongue. He lets out tiny moans in reaction to tugging, and his tongue will start to dart out more adventurously.

Then Aziraphale finds the so-called Achilles’ heel.

Crowley is in his lap, (how he ended up there exactly is not something the angel really cares about, nor remembers) as his manicured nails manage to tickle the hair at the nape of the demon’s neck. Twisting the smaller strand of hair between his fingers, the angel gives a slight tug—

Crowley _growls_.

It’s the only acceptable descriptor for the way the demon’s ferocity seems to double. The urgency of his kisses increases twofold, and his hips begin angling downwards. He’s rocking into the blond, indescribable sounds coming from his throat.

Aziraphale teases the hair at the nape of his neck, curls one of the strand around his finger, and pulls.

Crowley howls, his mouth leaving the angel’s and instead going towards his neck. His mouth sucks none-too-gently. There seems to be a crazed look in his eye, the way he bends and fold and mouths at Aziraphale’s neck.

The angel moves his head at such an angle to expose more of his throat. In the sunlight, in the South Downs, he lets a demon devour him.

“Mmm,” he sighs as Crowley rocks his body forward a little more. A rhythm is beginning between their groins, though the blond is far too distracted to take much notice aside from the friction that’s doing _something_ to him.

“Angel—” the word is raspy, hoarse, absolutely _wrecked_. “I …” The demon pauses, breathing intensely against Aziraphale’s throat. Each breath he takes tickles, not in a bad way, just a slight ghost of a touch that Aziraphale wants more. “I’m …”

Aziraphale pulls gently at Crowley, angles him where he wants him, feels his body move against his, feels his own hips surge up to meet him and then—

“Oh.”

“Er.”

Aziraphale’s … wet. But it’s not him, it’s—

“Don’t look at me,” the demon mumbles into his neck. “I’ll just … er.”

“There’s no shame in it,” Aziraphale says, flushed as much as the demon.

“I know that,” the demon hisses in a tone that very much conveys he did not know that. His face is mushed inside of Azirpahale’s chest. How he can breathe like that is anyone’s guess, but then Aziraphale remembers he doesn’t need to.

“Uh. We do need to clean this up.”

Crowley nods ever so slightly against the angel’s chest.

“You’ll need to move, for us to do that.”

“Hmm.”

Aziraphale gently tilts Crowley’s head up so he’s at least looking at him. “Hullo,” he says softly.

“Hullo.”

Slowly, the demon cracks into a smile, and before the two of them know it, they’re laughing. The tension disappears, and Artemis lets out a slight meow, weaving their way between the space that’s developed between the two of them, determined to get in on the hugging action.

“Alright,” Crowley declares, “these pants have to come off. They’re a fucking nightmare dry, and now they’re even worse.” He runs his hand through his hair, pets the cat gently, then throws Aziraphale a slight nod before bolting.

Crowley is sheepish and generally skittish about intimacy.

Aziraphale wouldn’t have him any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi David Tennant brings out my hair kink excuse me


	79. Chapter 79

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, today is my parents' 50th wedding anniversary! So I decided to post early! Also, over the next 2 weeks I have 3 major papers due, and then I have a week of exams, so I'll be taking a 3 week break (I know, strange since it's NaNoWriMo, but hey, this wasn't my NaNoWriMo work so ...)

“ _Fuck_ …”

The word is barely a whisper. It’s breathless and airy, comes out an involuntary gasp to a punch to the gut.

Instantly, Aziraphale tenses.

Crowley freezes.

“Did you …?”

Crowley pulls away from the principality’s neck where he was making a valiant effort to mark it up so that no passage of time could pass without someone knowing he was there. The angel’s hands had been in his hair, encouraging him with gentle words, but then—

“I am so sorry!”

Crowley shakes his head, a grin that would look maniacally unhinged on anyone taking over his features. “No, no, don’t do that!” He tries to pull the angel’s hands away from his mouth, but the blond fights him, shaking his head, his eyes wide.

“C’mon, it’s not that bad,” Crowley says. “You swore and the world hasn’t ended.”

“It slipped!”

“Six thousand years, and it’s your first slip up. Not bad.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Not the first,” and he continues talking, probably worrying on endlessly but Crowley’s brain has latched onto those three words, and it plays in repeat in his head like a _Best of Queen_ album.

_Not the first._

_Not the first._

_Not the first._

Aziraphale, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, _swore_ , and he _missed it_?

“— what am I going to do?” is around when Crowley drops back onto the planet and is able to hear the angel’s ramblings again. His hands have started fluttering nervously as they are want to do when he gets overly anxious. Crowley grips them gently, but firmly in his own hands.

Those blue eyes that reminds Crowley every day of that first moment in Eden look back at him, into his serpentine pupils, and there’s fear and dread in his gaze. It really is worrying him an awful lot.

“Hey,” Crowley says, making sure his voice is soft. “Nothing bad happened. You’re still here. I’m still here. We’re fine.”

“We’re fine,” Aziraphale echoes distantly. He can tell the angel isn’t with him, not in mind. He’s somewhere far off, and he’ll stay there unless Crowley can fix this.

“Angels can swear, I promise,” the redhead urges. “When I was in Heaven, at the trial, Gabriel swore. Nothing happened to him. He was fine. You are going to be okay, alright, sweetheart?” the endearment slips out, and he’s not sure why because this isn’t exactly the moment to try and be cute, but the foggy look in Aziraphale’s eyes starts to dissipate, so he continues.

“Cussing is not a problem. _You are not going to Fall for this._ Trust me.”

“Trust you,” Aziraphale repeats. There’s no incredulousness to his tone, not the way other angels say those two words, with contempt and suspicion. This is his angel, the one who trusts him and has helped him so much over the past weeks. He would be a fucking terrible partner if he didn’t treat this matter as importantly as Aziraphale is. He doesn’t think it’s a big deal, but this is an opinion on which they differ, and he is here for support.

“You are fine,” Crowley repeats, taking one of his hands off Aziraphale’s, and instead gently stroking his cheek. “Look at me, angel. Would I lie to you?”

“No,” and it’s the first thing he’s said that he sounds certain of.

“Exactly. So trust me on this. Profanity does not make you a bad angel. It does not mean you are in trouble with Her. _You will not fall for this_.”

Slowly, Aziraphale nods. He comes back to himself in pieces, and Crowley waits the minutes feeling like eons as the sparkle returns to his eyes and he takes Crowley’s words and turns them into truth in his mind.

“You okay?” he asks gently after a while.

“Yes.”

“You’re shaking.”

“Oh, am I?”

Crowley kisses their jointed hands. “Only a little.”

Aziraphale lets out a chuckle. It sounds like a surprise, like he wasn’t planning on it. It forces its way out of his mouth, the sound escaping his lips, and then he’s laughing with certainty and a lightness about him that takes Crowley’s breath away.

“I’m a bit silly, aren’t I, dear?”

“Cautious,” Crowley corrects.

Aziraphale humphs with adoration.

“So, now that it’s covered that you’re not going to endure eternal damnation for swearing …” Crowley curls into himself just a little bit. “Could you do it again?”

“Crowley!”

“What? It was erotic!”

“I’m not swearing just because you happen to like it!”

“I like it _a lot_ ,” Crowley insists. “I mean, how long has that little fuck been waiting inside of you? Wasn’t it good to let it out? And now that you know you can cuss without any repercussions, why don’t you? How long have you been holding those in? I’m just _saying_ , I have no objections to you dropping F bombs all the fucking time.”

“I’m not going to suddenly swear like a sailor, Crowley. I’m not _you_ ,” the angel says playfully. He leans forward just a little bit, kisses Crowley on the nose above his pouty mouth. “ _But_ , I suppose, in the future, I have no reason to have any reservations about _not_ swearing anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I expect the scene to go where it went? No.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Talk to me! I don’t really use Tumblr anymore, but you can e-mail me at setkia (dot) writer at gmail (dot) com !


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